Mrs. Crawford, as they drove over the jolting surface of Blackfriars’ Road, said, “Very odd friends your young man has, darling. And what a very unpleasant region they live in. It is just as well for the sake of the carriage wheels that we shall never have to go there again. We can’t, of course, if we are liable to meet people of no reputation there. I’m sure you know nothing about things like that, but I’m sorry to say that Mrs. Le Moine has done things she ought not to have done. One may continue to admire her music, as one may admire the acting of those who lead such unfortunate lives on the stage; but one can’t meet her. Eddy ought to know that. Of course it’s different for him. Men may meet anyone; in fact, I believe they do; and no one thinks the worse of them. But I can’t; still less, of course, you. I don’t suppose your dear mother would like me to tell you about her, so I won’t.”
“I know,” said Molly, blushing again and feeling she oughtn’t to. “Eddy told me. He’s a great friend of hers, you see.”
“Oh, indeed. Well, girls know everything now-a-days, of course. In fact, everyone knows this; both she and Hugh Datcherd were such well-known people. I don’t say it was so very dreadfully wrong, what they did; and of course Dorothy Datcherd left Hugh in the lurch first—but you wouldn’t have heard of that, no—only it does put Mrs. Le Moine beyond the pale. And, in fact, it is dreadfully wrong to fly in the face of everybody’s principles and social codes; of course it is.”
Molly cared nothing for everyone’s principles and social codes; but she knew it was dreadfully wrong, what they had done. She couldn’t even reason it out; couldn’t formulate the real reason why it was wrong; couldn’t see that it was because it was giving rein to individual desire at the expense of the violation of a system which on the whole, however roughly and crudely, made for civilisation, virtue, and intellectual and moral progress; that it was, in short, a step backwards into savagery, a giving up of ground gained. Arnold Denison, more clear-sighted, saw that; Molly, with only her childlike, unphilosophical, but intensely vivid recognition of right and wrong to help her, merely knew it was wrong. From three widely different standpoints those three, Molly, Arnold Denison, Mrs. Crawford, joined in that recognition. Against them stood Eddy, who saw only the right in it, and the stabbing, wounding pity of it....
“It is extremely fortunate,” said Mrs. Crawford, “that that young woman Miss Dawn refused to come to lunch. I daresay she knew she wasn’t fit for lunch, with such people straying in and out of her rooms and she holding their hands. I give her credit so far. As for the plump fair child, she is obviously one of those vulgarians I insist on not hearing mentioned. Very strange friends, darling, your....”
“I’m sure nearly all Eddy’s friends are very nice,” Molly broke in. “Miss Dawn was staying at the Deanery at Christmas, you know. I’m sure she’s nice, and she draws beautifully. And I expect Miss Peters is nice too; she’s so friendly and jolly, and has such pretty hair and eyes. And....”
“You can stop there, dearest. If you are proceeding to say that you are sure Mrs. Le Moine is nice too, you can spare yourself the trouble.”
“I wasn’t,” said Molly unhappily, and lifted her shamed, honest, amber eyes to her aunt’s face. “Of course ... I know ... she can’t be.”
Her aunt gave her a soothing pat on the shoulder. “Very well, pet: don’t worry about it. I’m afraid you will find that there are a large number of people in the world, and only too many of them aren’t at all nice. Shockingly sad, of course; but if one took them all to heart one would sink into an early grave. The worst of this really is that we have lost our tea. We might drop in on the Tommy Durnfords; it’s their day, surely.... When shall you see Eddy next, by the way?”
“I think doesn’t he come to dinner to-morrow?”