“It’s perfect, of course, in itself, but I think Mrs. Shortman is right.  It might offend some people.”

Gregory went quickly to the window, threw it up, and stood gazing at the sky.  Both women looked at his back.

Mrs. Shortman said gently: 

“I would only just alter it like this, from after ‘country homes’:  ’whether they do not pity and forgive this poor girl in a great city, without friends, without money, almost without clothes, and exposed to all the craft of one of those fiends in human form who prey upon our womankind,’ and just stop there.”

Gregory returned to the table.

“Not ‘forgive,"’ he said, “not ’forgive’!”

Mrs. Shortman raised her pen.

“You don’t know,” she said, “what a strong feeling there is.  Mind, it has to go to numbers of parsonages, Mr. Vigil.  Our principle has always been to be very careful.  And you have been plainer than usual in stating the case.  It’s not as if they really could put themselves in her position; that’s impossible.  Not one woman in a hundred could, especially among those who live in the country and have never seen life.  I’m a squire’s daughter myself.”

“And I a parson’s,” said Gregory, with a smile.

Mrs. Shortman looked at him reproachfully.

“Joking apart, Mr. Vigil, it’s touch and go with our paper as it is; we really can’t afford it.  I’ve had lots of letters lately complaining that we put the cases unnecessarily strongly.  Here’s one: 

                              “’BOURNEFIELD Rectory,
                              “’November 1. 
“’Dear madam,

“’While sympathising with your good work, I am afraid I cannot become a subscriber to your paper while it takes its present form, as I do not feel that it is always fit reading for my girls.  I cannot think it either wise or right that they should become acquainted with such dreadful aspects of life, however true they may be.

                              “’I am, dear madam,
                                   “’Respectfully yours,
                                        “’Winifred TUDDENHAM.

“’P.S.—­I could never feel sure, too, that my maids would not pick it up, and perhaps take harm.’”

“I had that only this morning.”

Gregory buried his face in his hands, and sitting thus he looked so like a man praying that no one spoke.  When he raised his face it was to say: 

“Not ‘forgive,’ Mrs. Shortman, not ’forgive’!”

Mrs. Shortman ran her pen through the word.

“Very well, Mr. Vigil,” she said; “it’s a risk.”

The sound of the typewriter, which had been hushed, began again from the corner.

“That case of drink, Mr. Vigil—­Millicent Porter—­I’m afraid there’s very little hope there.”

Gregory asked: 

“What now?”

“Relapsed again; it’s the fifth time.”