“Did you have nothing worse? Rousseau ends where Tom Jones begins.”
“My temperament saved me,” said Philip. “A woman is not a woman to me, without personal refinement.”
“Just what Rousseau said,” replied Harry.
“I acted upon it,” answered Malbone. “No one dislikes Blanche Ingleside and her demi monde more than I.”
“You ought not,” was the retort. “You help to bring other girls to her level.”
“Whom?” said Malbone, startled.
“Emilia.”
“Emilia?” repeated the other, coloring crimson. “I, who have warned her against Blanche’s society.”
“And have left her no other resource,” said Harry, coloring still more. “Malbone, you have gained (unconsciously of course) too much power over that girl, and the only effect of it is, to keep her in perpetual excitement. So she seeks Blanche, as she would any other strong stimulant. Hope does not seem to have discovered this, but Kate has, and I have.”
Hope came in, and Harry went out. The next day he came to Philip and apologized most warmly for his unjust and inconsiderate words. Malbone, always generous, bade him think no more about it, and Harry for that day reverted strongly to his first faith. “So noble, so high-toned,” he said to Kate. Indeed, a man never appears more magnanimous than in forgiving a friend who has told him the truth.