“But, Sylvia! The telegram came from your cousin!”
“I don’t care! It’s some tale they’ve told to Harley!”
“But—he says Frank is arrested!”
“Oh, I ought to go to him! I ought to find out the truth! Frank is not that kind of man!”
“My child,” ventured “Miss Margaret,” “how much do you know about men?”
Sylvia stared at her mother. Vague questions trembled on her lips; but she saw there was no help in that quarter. “I have always kept my daughter innocent!” the other was saying. “He ought to be killed for coming into our home and dragging you into such shame!”
Sylvia stood silent, utterly bewildered. She knew that there were dreadful things in the world, of which she had gathered only the vaguest hints. “A disorderly house!” She had heard the name—she had heard other such names; she knew that these were unmentionable places, where wicked women lived and vile things were done; also she knew that men went there—but surely not the men she knew, surely not gentlemen, not those who ventured to ask for her love!
But why should she torment herself with such thoughts now? This charge against Frank could not be true! “How long will it be,” she demanded, “before we can have the letter from Harley?”
“At least another day, your father says.”
“And there is nothing else we can do?” She tried to think. “We might telephone to Harley.”