"I wanted to talk to you about Connie," Muriel continued. "You know that when—when she had—to—to——"
"To marry my son to save her own name from the disgrace that justly followed her own action. Well?"
This was not a promising beginning, but at least it seemed to Muriel, that, considering his own record, he was being a little unfair.
"Well," she said, more hotly than she had intended. "I don't see myself that it was such an awful thing to do. After all, many people don't even marry."
"Because the many have sinned, does that excuse the guilt of one? I think not."
This was dangerous ground. Muriel shifted her position. It was too late now for retreat. She spoke hastily.
"I didn't come to talk to you about whether Connie sinned or not. I don't pretend to judge such things. What I do feel is that somebody ought to tell you that living on here is being frightfully bad for them. They're never really alone together for a minute. Every one whom they see and every one where they go reminds them of what they once did. People laugh and sneer—and—oh, it's terrible. You can't see it of course, or you'd have known, I'm sure, how impossible it is."
"Please go on. This is no doubt very interesting."
"It isn't interesting, Mr. Todd, really. It's horrible. Oh, do let them go away. Please let them go. You've got a farm at Fallowdale, haven't you?"
No answer came to her from the shadows. Fearfully she continued: