“None of your sermons!” cried Rodney. “If I hated the Roman Catholic Church before, and was glad I was shunt of it, how do you suppose I like it now that it is stealing my wife? Cis is a girl; girls are easy fooled; they’re all alike when it comes to priests and stuff. I could have held my tongue and married Cis; this is what I get for being straight with her. Is that fair?” “You could not have married Cis; you might have succeeded in ruining her life. Be thankful that you had the grace to stop at the crime you contemplated toward her,” Miss Braithwaite said. “But I truly believe, Mr. Moore, that this is not all that you get for being straight. I believe that good is coming to you, unforeseen good, because you conquered the temptation to trick her into a legal marriage that never in her eyes--nor at the last issue in yours, either--would have been a marriage. For so mighty is truth, so strong its hold upon us, that we can never free our souls from its blessed bondage. Our lips and our actions may deny it; what we have been taught persists in our souls, often saving us, at last. Now do one last, fine, atoning act: go away and leave Cis to find her way back into peace. You say she wrote you calmly, coldly. I saw the note written, there, at that desk. She wrote it in agony. Surely you could read agony there if you were not blinded with your own pain! Pain, but also anger, Mr. Moore! Remember your pang is partly the wrath of defeat.” “See here, I’m not calling on you. You may be a duchess, which you act like, but I’m not your serf!” cried Rodney. “I won’t take this from you. Cis has to refuse to see me. Send her here. How do I know you haven’t got her locked up somewhere, you and a priest?” “Because you are not a fool,” said Miss Braithwaite contemptuously. “Take a sheet of paper from that desk, at which Cicely sat to write to you, and write upon it any message you please. My maid shall take it to her. After that, if she will not see you, you will leave my house and I trust be man enough to torment the girl no more.” “You’re a high-handed little labor leader, if you are a fine lady, aren’t you?” cried Rodney, almost admiringly, in spite of his rage. He crossed the room, took up a piece of paper from the desk, shook down the ink in his own fountain pen, and wrote several lines. Then he took an envelope, laid his note inside and sealed it. “Servants are curious,” he said. “Are you going to call yours?” Miss Braithwaite rang, and Ellen appeared. “Please take Mr. Moore’s note to Miss Adair, Ellen,” said Miss Braithwaite. “Wait till she has read it, and bring back her reply, please.” “No! I’ll go with you! Take me--I’ll follow you, Ellen; go ahead,” said Rodney, starting toward the door. “Rodney Moore, you forget yourself! Stay where you are. Ellen, do as I have told you; this young man will wait here for your return.”