Evasion was no longer possible. Anyway, it might be best to try to explain just how it was--to set poor Arthur right. So she replied: “Yes, it was Arthur--but it wasn't his fault, exactly.” “Not HIS fault? Whose in thunder was it?” Missy hesitated. She didn't like talking scandal of anyone directly--and, besides, there were likeable traits in Genevieve despite her obvious failings. “Well,” she said, “it's just that Arthur is under a kind of wrong influence--if you know what I mean.” “Yes, I know that influences count for a good deal,” answered father in the serious way she loved in him. Father DID understand more than most grown-ups. And Reverend MacGill was like him in that. She found time fleetingly to wish that Reverend MacGill were in some way related to her. Too bad that he was a little too young for Aunt Nettie; and, perhaps, too old for--she caught herself up, blushing in the dark, as father went on: “Just what kind of influence is undermining this Arthur fellow?” She wished he wouldn't keep speaking of Arthur with that damning kind of phrase. It was because she wanted to convince him that Arthur didn't really merit it that she went further in speech than she'd intended. “Well, he runs around with frivolous, light-minded people. People who lead him on to do things he wouldn't dream of doing if they'd let him alone. It isn't his fault if he's kind of--kind of dissipated.” She paused, a little awe-stricken herself at this climactic characterization of poor, misguided Arthur; she couldn't have told herself just how she had arrived at it. A little confusedly she rushed on: “He ought to have uplifting, ennobling influences in his life--Arthur's at heart an awfully nice boy. That's why I wanted mother to let me go walking with him. Don't you think that--maybe--if she understood--she might let me?” How in the world had that last question ever popped out? How had she worked up to it? A little appalled, a little abashed, but withal atingle at her own daring, she breathlessly, even hopefully, awaited his answer. But father ruthlessly squashed her hopes with two fell sentences and one terrifying oath. “I should say not! You say he's dissipated and then in the same breath ask me--for God's sake!” “Well, maybe, he isn't so dissipated, father,” she began quaveringly, regretting the indiscretion into which eloquence had enticed her. “I don't care a whoop whether he is or not,” said father heartlessly. “What I want is for you to get it into your head, once for all, that you're to have NOTHING to do with this fellow or any other boy!”