"Yes--he's a rotter. But he--he has his good points--all men have."
"I don't see how a man like Furlonger can. He seems bad all around. I wonder you care to know him."
"I suppose you knew him before he went to gaol."
"Yes--and unluckily I can't drop him now."
Nigel stared at her, and suddenly felt angry.
"Your father doesn't know him. I do, and I say he has his good points."
"Then why do you stick up for him so? You're quite angry."
"No--no, I'm not angry. But I hate to hear you speaking so harshly and--ignorantly."
"I have my ideals," said Tony, with a primitive attempt at loftiness. "A woman should have clearly defined ideals on morals and things."
"Certainly--but it's no good having ideals unless you're able to forgive the people who don't come up to 'em. Perhaps it isn't their fault--perhaps it's yours."
"Mine! What are you talking about? Are you trying to make out that I'm to blame for a man like Furlonger going to gaol?"
"No--of course not. But suppose that man Furlonger stood before you now, and asked you to help him, and be his friend, and give him a hand out of the mud--what would you do?"
She was a little taken aback by his eagerness. She hesitated a moment.
Tony Strife reached Shovelstrode in a state of reckless and sublime uncertainty. She was quite uncertain as to whether she meant to confess or not. Precedent urged her to do so. Whenever she did something of which she was not sure her parents would approve, it was part of her code to confess it. Quite possibly her people would not blame her, they might even be grateful to Mr. Smith, as they had been on a former occasion. On the other hand, they might shake their heads at the picnic part of the business. Who was Mr. Smith, that he should go picnicing with their daughter?--and she would not be so confident in answering as she had been before.
During their short interview on East Grinstead platform it had not been possible to take more than a superficial view of him, either with eyes or mind; but the close contemplation at Brambletye had impressed her with the conviction that he was "rather queer." He evidently did not belong to their set; not because he was poor--they knew several people who were poor--but because of a certain alien quality she could not define. It was not, either, because he was not a "gentleman," though she had her occasional doubts of that, alternating with savage contempt for them. It was because his manner, his look, his behaviour, had all been utterly different from what she was used to, or had met at Shovelstrode. She felt that if her parents were to question her searchingly, her answers would be unsatisfactory, and she would not be allowed to meet him again, as he had suggested. And she wanted to meet him again; he had interested her, he had attracted her by that very "queerness" with which he had occasionally repelled her. She wanted to tell him more about her school, to have more of his strange confidences, hear more from him about Furlonger, see again that hunted look in his eyes. Only one of her memories of him was tender--that was when his infinite suffering had called to her out of his eyes, and she had answered it in a sudden new and divine surge of pain. She caught her breath sharply as she went into the house.