"You are terribly wrong about--everything." Mary-Clare spoke quietly but her words cut like bits of hail. "If you are going, as you say, to be Mr. Northrup's wife, you must try and believe what I am saying now for your own sake, but more for his."
Kathryn tried to say "Insolence!" but could not; she merely sat back in her chair and flashed an angry glance that Mary-Clare did not heed.
"Mr. Northrup is writing a beautiful book. The book is himself. He does not realize how much it is----"
"Indeed!" Kathryn did utter the one word, then added: "I suppose he's read it to you?"
"Here, I suppose? By the fire, alone with you?"
Mary-Clare turned and glanced at the pure, open woods. "It is a beautiful book," she repeated.
"Oh! go on, do! Really this is too utterly ridiculous." Kathryn laughed impatiently. "We'll take for granted the beauty of the book."
"No, I cannot go on. You would not understand. It does not matter. What I want you to know is this--he could not do an ugly, low thing. If you wrong him there, you will never be forgiven, for it would hurt the soul of him; the part of him that no one--not even you who will be his wife--has a right to hurt or touch. You must make him _believe_ in women. Oh! I wish I could make you see--that was the matter with his beautiful book--I can understand now. He did not know women; but if you believe what I am saying, all will be right; you can make him know the truth. I can imagine how you might think wrong--it never occurred to me before--the woods, the loneliness, all the rest, but, because everything has been right, it makes him all the finer. You do believe me! You must! Tell me that you do!"
Mary-Clare was desperate. It was like trying to save someone from a flood that was carrying him to the rapids. The unreality of the situation alone made anything possible, but Kathryn suddenly reduced the matter to the deadly commonplace.
"No, I do not believe you," she said bitterly. "I am a woman of the world. I hate to say what I must, but there is so little time now, and there will be no time later on, so you'll have to take what you have brought upon yourself. This whole thing is pitifully cheap and ordinary--the only gleam of difference in it is that you are rather unusual--more dangerous on that account. I simply cannot account for you, but it doesn't really interest me. When Mr. Northrup writes his books, he always does what he has done now. It's rather brutal and cold-blooded but so it is. He has used you--you have been material for him. If there is nothing worse"--Kathryn flushed here--"it is because I have come in time. May I ask you now to leave me here in Mr. Northrup's"--Kathryn sought the proper word--"study?" she said lamely. "I will rest awhile; try to compose myself. If he comes I will meet him here. If not, I will go to the inn later."