'My child,--' 'Hold on, Father
Roubeau! Though I'm not of your faith, I respect you; but you
can't come in between this woman and me!' 'You know what you are
doing?' 'Know! Were you God Almighty, ready to fling me into
eternal fire, I'd bank my will against yours in this matter.'
Wharton had placed Grace on a stool and stood belligerently
before her.
'You sit down on that chair and keep quiet,' he continued,
addressing the Jesuit. 'I'll take my innings now. You can have
yours after.'
Father Roubeau bowed courteously and obeyed. He was an easy-going
man and had learned to bide his time. Wharton pulled a stool
alongside the woman's, smothering her hand in his.
'Then you do care for me, and will take me away?' Her face seemed
to reflect the peace of this man, against whom she might draw
close for shelter.
'Dear, don't you remember what I said before? Of course I-' 'But
how can you?--the wash-up?' 'Do you think that worries? Anyway,
I'll give the job to Father Roubeau, here.
'I can trust him to safely bank the dust with the company.' 'To
think of it!--I'll never see him again.' 'A blessing!' 'And to
go--O, Clyde, I can't! I can't!' 'There, there; of course you
can, just let me plan it.
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