“That would have made no difference—unless it were to create fresh difficulties.”
She stood there ghostly white against the gloom. A dry sob broke from her. “Terence did that! Terence did that!” she moaned. And then in a surge of anger: “I shall never speak to Terence again. I shall not live with him another day. It was infamous! Infamous!”
“It was not infamous. It was almost noble, almost heroic,” he amazed her. “Listen, Una, and try to understand.” He took her arm again and drew her gently on down that avenue of moonlight-fretted darkness.
“Oh, I understand,” she cried bitterly. “I understand perfectly. He has always been hard on Dick! He has always made mountains out of molehills where Dick was concerned. He forgets that Dick is young a mere boy. He judges Dick from the standpoint of his own sober middle age. Why, he’s an old man—a wicked old man!”
Thus her rage, hurling at O’Moy what in the insolence of her youth seemed the last insult.
“You are very unjust, Una. You are even a little stupid,” he said, deeming the punishment necessary and salutary.
“Stupid! I stupid! I have never been called stupid before.”
“But you have undoubtedly deserved to be,” he assured her with perfect calm.
It took her aback by its directness, and for a moment left her without an answer. Then: “I think you had better leave me,” she told him frostily. “You forget yourself.”
“Perhaps I do,” he admitted. “That is because I am more concerned to think of Dick and Terence and yourself. Sit down, Una.”