Hermione said nothing.

“Well?” said Helen.

“Mother, this is a terrible subject—I’d rather avoid it,” said Hermione. “It isn’t a subject for a girl to be talking to her mother about.”

“What isn’t?” said Helen.

“The character of the man who—who seduced you,” said Hermione.

“Nobody seduced me, and I have not desired your opinion of Paris. You were a year old when he saw you last. What I want to know is something you may be able to tell me—how did these scandals begin?”

“If you insist on our coming to an understanding,” said Hermione, “I think you oughtn’t to turn the discussion from its natural path. I didn’t want to say anything, but if we talk of it at all, it is a question of Paris. Of course, when he left I had no opinion of him, but I have one now. I don’t think highly of him. He’s dead—and all that, but his conduct has seemed to me, still seems, shocking.”

“My impression is that he couldn’t help it,” said Helen. “You’ll admit I was in a better position to understand him. But that’s not the point. How did such a story begin? Do you know?”

“Since you are determined to find out,” said Hermione, “I made up all the stories myself.”

“That’s what I gathered from Charitas,” said Helen. “I’m glad you have the frankness to own it. Oh, Hermione, how could you tell those lies? You needn’t answer; it’s the result of my leaving you—you had no bringing up.”

“You hurt me,” cried Hermione, “you hurt me with the hard things you say and the cool way you say them! I try to be dutiful, I call you mother, but we don’t belong to each other. If you were human you’d know why I did what I could to save your name, to keep even a wild chance it might be a mistake, to support at least a little good opinion for you to return to—if you came back. Don’t look at me so—you’ve no right to! If I had a daughter telling me such truth as I’m telling you, I’d feel shame—I couldn’t be so shining and serene!”

Helen continued radiant and serene. “Respectability based on falsehood,” she said. “That’s what your love for me suggested. I’ve seen it tried before, Hermione, you’re very like your father. Like my sister, too, I’m sorry to see. By the way, have you seen Orestes in my absence?”

“From time to time,” said Hermione—“that is, not very often.”

“What if you had?” asked Helen. “It wouldn’t be a crime, would it?”

Hermione said nothing.

“You needn’t blush,” said Helen, “it’s not your daughter speaks to you as yet; it’s only your mother, who embarrasses you with her liking for sincerity. As a matter of fact, I’ve no doubt you’ve seen your cousin frequently.”

Hermione said nothing.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, if you have,” her mother went on; “we once planned that you should marry him, and I dare say he likes you. I raised the question merely to examine your character a bit further. You lacked courage about me, but I could excuse that—you’re young, and mine is an unusual case. But you ought to have enough courage to tell the truth about your own blameless life. You thought my reputation would be improved by those extraordinary tales; will you tell me what your reputation can gain by lack of frankness?”