“Then you do still mingle with the great and gorgeous?” I said.
“What do you mean? Why shouldn't I?”
I laughed, suspecting rightly that my sisters' social position had not been greatly imperilled by the profligacy of their scandal-bespattered brother.
“What are people saying about me?” I asked suddenly.
She made a helpless gesture. “Can't you guess? You have told us the facts, and, of course, we believe you; we have done our best to spread abroad the correct version—but you know what people are. If they're told they oughtn't to believe the worst, they're disappointed and still go on believing it so as to comfort themselves.”
“You cynical little wretch!” said I.
“But it's true,” she urged. “And, after all, even if they were well disposed, the correct version makes considerable demands on their faith. Even Letty Farfax—”
“I know! I know!” said I. “Letty Farfax is typical. She would love to be on the side of the angels, but as she wouldn't meet the best people there, she ranges herself with the other party.”
Presently we dined, and during the meal, when the servants happened to be out of the room, we continued, snippet-wise, the inconclusive conversation. Like a good sister Agatha had come to cheer a lonely and much abused man; like a daughter of Eve she had also come to find out as much as she possibly could.
“I think I must tell you something which you ought to know,” she said. “It's all over the town that you stole the lady from Dale Kynnersley.”