She was horrified to think she had given her friendship to a scoundrel, even though she had done it ignorantly. It was like befriending a girl who cheated or told tales. For her his crime had no attraction or interest--it was just a hideous blot and defilement. She had often heard the Wickham Rubber scandal discussed, and now store-housed memories came to appal her. Hundreds of people, most of them already poor, had been ruined and plunged into misery--widows with growing families, elderly spinsters with hard-gathered savings, poor old men with the terror of the workhouse closing on them with age, had trusted this Furlonger once and execrated him now. He was like that dreadful man in the Psalms, who laid wait to murder the innocent--"he doth ravish the poor when he getteth him into his den." And she had allowed this man to be her friend, she had confided her secrets to him, she had dreamed of him and prayed to meet him.... Tony's teeth and hands clenched, and her eyes grew miserable and hard. Then she began to wonder what had made Furlonger want her friendship. What had he and she in common? Somehow she could not for a moment believe that he had sought her out from unworthy motives. The fact would always remain that he had wanted her friendship, that he had not given her a word which was not kind or courteous, that he had come to her rescue in her hour of need ... the tears rushed to her eyes; that was the bitterest part of all--her memories of his kindliness and knight-errantry--pictures of East Grinstead, Swites Wood, Brambletye, Lingfield Park, and that little old cottage by Goatsluck Farm. Suddenly she found herself making up her mind not to join her father and mother in condemning him. She would take his part in the scene which she knew was at hand. She soon heard her father calling her, and went down. He pointed into her mother's boudoir, a small room with French windows opening on the lawn. It was full of vague furniture and vague mixed colours, and it seemed to Tony as if she were swimming through it up to the couch where her mother lay. It never struck her as strange that her father should seem unable to deal with her himself, but should hand her over to this weak invalid, who lay with closed eyes in the lamplight. "Now, I don't want a scene," she said, without opening them. "Tony won't make a scene," said Sir Gambier; "she's a deep one." "Oh, Antoinette," sighed Lady Strife--"I never was so surprised in my life as when I heard of your deceit." "My deceit!" said Tony quickly. "Yes--going about with a man like Furlonger, and hiding it from your father and mother--don't you call that deceit?" "I didn't know he was Furlonger." "But you knew it was wrong to have a secret friendship with any man whatsoever. I never heard of such a thing in a young girl of your age and position--it's what housemaids do, and not nice housemaids at that." "Mother," cried Tony, her voice shaking unexpectedly, "it was an adventure."