Marian was far too practical to speculate when she should act. It was
clearly her duty to speak to Thurston on the subject, and, repugnant as
the task was, she resolved to perform it. It was some time before she
had the opportunity.
But at last, one afternoon in February, she chanced to meet Thurston on
the sea beach. After greeting him, she candidly opened the subject. She
spoke gently and delicately, but firmly and plainly--more so, perhaps,
than another woman in the same position would have done, for Marian was
eminently frank and fearless, especially where conscience was concerned.
And Thurston met her arguments with a graceful nonchalance, as seemingly
polite and good-humored as it was really ironical and insulting.
Marian gave him time--she was patient as firm--and firm as sorrowful.
And until every argument and persuasion had failed, she said:
"As a last resort, it may be necessary for me to warn Miss Le Roy--not
for my own sake. Were I alone involved, you know how much I would endure
rather than grieve you. But this young lady must not suffer wrong."
"You will write her an anonymous letter, possibly?"
"No--I never take an indirect road to an object."
"What, then, can you do, fair saint?"
"See Miss Le Roy, personally.
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