You
have thrown dust in a good many eyes in this house, but
_none_ in mine."
By this time Mary had got her temper quite in hand, taking a
lesson from the serpent, who will often keep his when the dove
loses hers. She hardly knew what fear was, for she had in her
something a little stronger than what generally goes by the name
of faith. She was therefore able to see that she ought, if
possible, to learn Sepia's object in talking thus to her.
"Why do you say all this to me?" she asked, quietly. "I can not
flatter myself it is from friendship."
"Certainly not. But the motive may be worthy, for all that. You
are not the only one involved. People who would pass for better
than their neighbors will never believe any good purpose in one
who does not choose to talk their slang."
Sepia had repressed her rage, and through it looked aggrieved.
"She confesses to a purpose," said Mary to herself, and waited.
"They are not all villains who are not saints," Sepia went on. "-
-This man's wife is your friend?"
"She is."
"Well, the man himself is my friend--in a sort of a sense." A
strange shiver went through Mary, and seemed to make her angry.
Sepia went on:
"I confess I allowed the poor boy--he is little more--to talk
foolishly to me. I was amused at first, but perhaps I have not
quite escaped unhurt; and, as a woman, you must understand that,
when a woman has once felt in that way, if but for a moment, she
would at least be--sorry--" Here her voice faltered, and she did
not finish the sentence, but began afresh: "What I want of you
is, through his wife, or any way you think best, to let the poor
fellow know he had better slip away--to France, say--and stop
there till the thing blow over.
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