"Call him what you like—there are twenty vulgar names. He's a perfect presence."
"He's a splendid presence!" I cried. "The place is haunted—haunted!" I exulted in the word as if it represented the fulfilment of my dearest dream.
"It isn't the place—more's the pity! That has nothing to do with it!"
"Then it's you, dear lady?" I said, as if this were still better.
"No, nor me either—I wish it were!"
"Perhaps it's me," I suggested with a sickly smile.
"It's nobody but my child—my innocent, innocent child!" And with this Mrs. Marden broke down—she dropped into a chair and burst into tears. I stammered some question—I pressed on her some bewildered appeal, but she waved me off, unexpectedly and passionately. I persisted—couldn't I help her, couldn't I intervene? "You have intervened," she sobbed; "you're in it, you're in it."
"I'm very glad to be in anything so curious," I boldly declared.
"Glad or not, you can't get out of it."
"I don't want to get out of it—it's too interesting."
"I'm glad you like it. Go away."
"But I want to know more about it."
"You'll see all you want—go away!"
"But I want to understand what I see."
"How can you—when I don't understand myself?"
"We'll do so together—we'll make it out."
At this she got up, doing what she could to obliterate her tears. "Yes, it will be better together—that's why I've liked you."
"Oh, we'll see it through!" I declared.
"Then you must control yourself better."