“Well,” said her father, “all these things are not sins, and she must be taught better.” “Joseph, how can you?” said Mrs. Armour indignantly. “She cannot, she shall not come here. Think of Marion. Think of our position.” She hid her troubled, tear-stained face behind her handkerchief. At the same time she grasped her husband’s hand. She knew that he was right. She honoured him in her heart for the position he had taken, but she could not resist the natural impulse of a woman where her taste and convention were shocked. The old man was very pale, but there was no mistaking his determination. He had been more indignant than any of them, at first, but he had an unusual sense of justice when he got face to face with it, as Richard had here helped him to do. “We do not know that the woman has done any wrong,” he said. “As for our name and position, they, thank God! are where a mad marriage cannot unseat them. We have had much prosperity in the world, my wife; we have had neither death nor dishonour; we--” “If this isn’t dishonour, father, what is?” Marion flashed out. He answered calmly. “My daughter, it is a great misfortune, it will probably be a lifelong trial, but it is not necessarily dishonour.” “You never can make a scandal less by trying to hide it,” said Richard, backing up his father. “It is all pretty awkward, but I daresay we shall get some amusement out of it in the end.” “Richard,” said his mother through her tears, “you are flippant and unkind!” “Indeed, mother,” was his reply, “I never was more serious in my life. When I spoke of amusement, I meant comedy merely, not fun--the thing that looks like tragedy and has a happy ending. That is what I mean, mother, nothing more.” “You are always so very deep, Richard,” remarked Marion ironically, “and care so very little how the rest of us feel about things. You have no family pride. If you had married a squaw, we shouldn’t have been surprised. You could have camped in the grounds with your wild woman, and never have been missed--by the world,” she hastened to add, for she saw a sudden pain in his face. He turned from them all a little wearily, and limped over to the window. He stood looking out into the limes where he and Frank had played when boys. He put his finger up, his unhandsome finger, and caught away some moisture from his eyes. He did not dare to let them see his face, nor yet to speak. Marion had cut deeper than she knew, and he would carry the wound for many a day before it healed. But his sister felt instantly how cruel she had been, as she saw him limp away, and caught sight of the bowed shoulders and the prematurely grey hair. Her heart smote her. She ran over, and impulsively put her hands on his shoulder. “Oh, Dick,” she said, “forgive me, Dick! I didn’t mean it. I was angry and foolish and hateful.” He took one of her hands as it rested on his shoulder, she standing partly behind him, and raised it to his lips, but he did not turn to her; he could not.