m not to cast her off."

"Oh, as for decency, they don't seem to have a shred of it amongst them.
And the Hannays are not her own people. I thought I should be safe in
going there after what you told me. And it was there I met her."

"I know. They were most distressed about it."

"And yet they received her, too, as if nothing had happened."

"Because nothing can happen now. They got rid of her when she was
dangerous. She isn't dangerous any more. On the contrary, I believe her
great idea now is to be respectable. I suppose they're trying to give her
a lift up. You must admit it's nice of them."

"You think them nice?"

"I think _that's_ nice of them. It's the sort of thing they do. They're
kind people, if they're not the most spiritual I have met."

"You may call it kindness, I call it shocking indifference. They're worse
than the Ransomes. I don't believe the Ransomes know what's decent. The
Hannays know, but they don't care. They're all dreadful people; and their
sympathy with each other is the most dreadful thing about them. They hold
together and stand up for each other, and are 'kind' to each other,
because they all like the same low, vulgar, detestable things. That's why
Mr. Hannay married Mrs. Hannay, and Mr. Ransome married Lady Cayley's
sister. They're all admirably suited to each other, but not, my dear
Edie, to you or me."

"They're certainly not your sort, I admit."

"Nor yours either."

"No, nor mine either," said Edith, smiling. "Poor Anne, I'm sorry we've
let you in for them."

"I'm not thinking only of myself. The terrible thing is that you should
be let in, too."

"Oh, me--how can they harm me?"

"They have harmed you."

"How?"

"By keeping other people away."

"What people?"

"The nice people you should have known. You were entitled to the very
best. The Eliotts and the Gardners--those are the people who should have
been your friends, not the Hannays and the Ransomes; and not, believe me,
darling, Mr. Gorst."

For a moment Edith unveiled the tragic suffering in her eyes. It passed,
and left her gaze grave and lucid and serene.

"What do you know of Mr. Gorst?"

"Enough, dear, to see that he isn't fit for you to know."

"Poor Charlie, that's what he's always saying himself. I've known him too
long, you see, not to know him now. Years and years, my dear, before I
knew you."

"It was through Mrs. Eliott that I knew you, remember."

"Because you were determined to know me. It