Christine would sit up later than ever.
And, besides with Mr. Ricardo's voice rising and falling, growing shriller
and more passionate, one could not listen to that low, mysterious hum that
was so like a far-off music.
Mr. Ricardo made a sweeping, crushing gesture. "That, surely, settles the
controversy. He will hardly be able to answer that, I think."
Christine stirred, and opened her eyes, and smiled a little.
"I could not answer it, at any rate. It sounds very clever." She took
the paper from him and held it to the light, and Robert turned, hoping
that now he would really go. "But--but I didn't quite understand--have I
lost the place?--this is by E. T. Richards."
Then Robert saw an astonishing thing. Suddenly Mr. Ricardo seemed to
shrivel--to cower back into himself. His fierce, triumphant energy had
gone as at a blasting touch of magic. He looked ashamed and broken.
"A _nom de plume_--_a nom de guerre_, rather, Miss Forsyth--you
understand--in my opinion--the scholastic profession--the stronghold of
the worst bigotry and prejudice--for myself I should not care--I have
always wanted to come out into the open--but I have a sister--poor
girl!--a long, sad illness--for her sake--I can't afford----"
Christine folded the paper gently as though she were afraid of hurting it.
"Of course. It would be unwise--unnecessary. Why should one sacrifice
oneself to fight something that doesn't exist?"
He clenched his fists.
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