"Because he's my friend—my dear old friend," answered Sheila, her eyes clear with the surprise of a clean conscience.
"Wouldn't a woman friend do as well?" Ted was trying to hold himself in check, but something in his words or his tone made Sheila stare, and he repeated, with a touch of asperity, "Wouldn't a woman friend do as well?"
"The only woman friend I have whom I really care for is Charlotte—and she won't be here until April."
"Then you'd better wait for her. You'd better wait for her—and see less of Burnett."
"What do you mean?" she asked. And now her puzzled eyes grew steel-cold with intuitive resentment.
"I mean that you'll get yourself talked about if you go on as you're doing at present. A married woman can't be so much with a man not her husband without being talked about."
"That is absurd!" she retorted, and her voice was as cold as her eyes; it put miles between them. "Peter has always been my friend. He's been like one of my family to me all my life. He's more than ever like a relative to me now that all my own people are dead. It's absurd to suggest that our friendship could be so misinterpreted. It's low to think of such a thing!"
"Low or not, it's wise to think of such things. You'll get yourself talked about if I let you. But I'm your natural protector, and I won't let you. I forbid you to have Burnett here as you've been doing. I forbid you!"
"I am to tell him that?" she inquired scornfully.
"You're to tell him nothing. He'll soon stop coming if he's not asked. The fact is, I don't believe he's wanted to come so often. You're the one to blame, Sheila. You've invited him—you've sent for him when he hasn't come of his own accord." And then, as they faced each other in their unaccustomed hostility, Ted added, with a final flare of wrath, "You've run after him—that's what you've done!"