"You put it strongly, Mr. Huntington."
"I feel it strongly; that must be my excuse."
Mrs. Thatcher was visibly affected. It was several moments before she spoke, and Huntington could see that she resented his attitude.
"You look at it wholly from a man's standpoint," she protested. "No one with Philip Hamlen's temperament can find the life he craves in companionship with men alone. Of course I respect your convictions, but you in turn must respect mine. I am so sure I am right that I cannot abandon the hope I have so long cherished. It will be more difficult of accomplishment without you, but if necessary I must carry it through alone."
"Forgive me, Mrs. Thatcher,—but are you not thinking of him and of your obligation more than of your daughter?"
"You surely don't think I would force Merry against her will!"
"Sometimes we leave one a free moral agent," Huntington said pointedly, "and at the same time bind him with chains stronger than iron by expression of our own desires."
The approach of Hamlen and Merry brought the unsatisfactory discussion to a forced conclusion, and Huntington rejoiced that it saved him from further expostulations. Thatcher had returned to the club-house to telephone, leaving Hamlen and Merry by themselves. Hamlen responded to Merry's spontaneous vivacity, and both were in the best of spirits as they walked toward the shelter. He was heavier now and it became him. The sallowness had left his face and a slight color appeared in his cheeks. The girl beside him, as always when enthusiastic, radiated happiness. Her companion could scarcely keep up with her as she half walked half ran up the slight incline.
"Look at them!" Mrs. Thatcher exclaimed, turning to Huntington. "Who are you to tell me I am wrong!"
Huntington was spared the necessity of reply for Merry had reached them. Mrs. Thatcher rose and strolled away by herself to relieve her overwrought feelings.