“Yes,” he said, when the rector had finished, “that is my observation.  Most of them are driven to the life, and held in it, of course, by a remorseless civilization.  Individuals may be culpable, Mr. Hodder—­are culpable.  But we cannot put the whole responsibility on individuals.”

“No,” Hodder assented, “I can see that now.”  He paused a moment, and as his mind dwelt upon the scene and he saw again the woman standing before him in bravado, the whole terrible meaning of her life and end flashed through him as one poignant sensation.  Her dauntless determination to accept the consequence of her acts, her willingness to look her future in the face, cried out to him in challenge.

“She refused unconditionally,” he said.

Mr. Bentley seemed to read his thought, divine his appeal.

“We must wait,” he answered.

“Do you think?—­” Hodder began, and stopped abruptly.

“I remember another case, somewhat similar,” said Mr. Bentley.  “This woman, too, had the spirit you describe—­we could do nothing with her.  We kept an eye on her—­or rather Sally Grover did—­she deserves credit —­and finally an occasion presented itself.”

“And the woman you speak of was—­rehabilitated?” Hodder asked.  He avoided the word “saved.”

“Yes, sir.  It was one of the fortunate cases.  There are others which are not so fortunate.”

Hodder nodded.

“We are beginning to recognize that we are dealing, in, many instances, with a disease,” Mr. Bentley went on.  “I am far from saying that it cannot be cured, but sometimes we are forced to admit that the cure is not within our power, Mr. Hodder.”

Two thoughts struck the rector simultaneously, the:  revelation of what might be called a modern enlightenment in one of Mr. Bentley’s age, an indication of uninterrupted growth, of the sense of continued youth which had impressed him from the beginning; and, secondly, an intimation from the use of the plural pronoun we, of an association of workers (informal, undoubtedly) behind Mr. Bentley.  While he was engaged in these speculations the door opened.

“Heah’s Miss Sally, Marse Ho’ace,” said Sam.

“Good morning, Sally,” said Mr. Bentley, rising from the table with his customary courtesy, “I’m glad you came in.  Let me introduce Mr. Hodder, of St. John’s.”

Miss Grover had capability written all over her.  She was a young woman of thirty, slim to spareness, simply dressed in a shirtwaist and a dark blue skirt; alert, so distinctly American in type as to give a suggestion of the Indian.  Her quick, deep-set eyes searched Hodder’s face as she jerked his hand; but her greeting was cordial, and, matter-of-fact.  She stimulated curiosity.

“Well, Sally, what’s the news?” Mr. Bentley asked.

“Gratz, the cabinet-maker, was on the rampage again, Mr. Bentley.  His wife was here yesterday when I got home from work, and I went over with her.  He was in a beastly state, and all the niggers and children in the neighbourhood, including his own, around the shop.  Fusel oil, labelled whiskey,” she explained, succinctly.