“I had the pleasure of taking supper with Miss Maclaire.”
“Oh!” the exclamation decidedly expressive.
“Yes, I come at once to you with the confession. However, our meeting was purely accidental, and so I hope for pardon.”
“Pardon from me? Why, what difference can it possibly make to me?”
“Would you have me consort with the enemy?” he asked, scarcely daring to press his deeper meaning.
“Oh, no, of course not. What did you talk about? Do you mind telling?”
“Not in the least; our conversation was entirely impersonal. She was telling me about Hawley; what a wonderfully good man he is. I have begun to suspect the fellow has fascinated the poor girl—he is a good looking devil, possessed of a tongue dripping with honey.”
“Surely you do not mean she has fallen in love with him,” and Hope shuddered at the thought. “Why—why that would be impossible for—for a good woman.”
“Standards of morality are not always the same,” he defended gravely. “Miss Maclaire's environment has been vastly different from yours, Hope. She is a variety hall singer; probably, from her own account, a waif since childhood; and Hawley has come to her in the character of a friend, appealing both to her interest and sympathy. I do not know she is in love with him, I merely suspect she may be; certainly she is ready to do battle on his behalf at the slightest opportunity. She believes in him, defends him, and resents the slightest insinuation directed against him. He even escorts her back and forth from her work.”
“You know this?”