"It isn't your fault, Hugh," she said, "but you mustn't ask your father questions; they distress him. Leave us now."
I turned heavily away, and went up-stairs to my room. About an hour afterwards, when I pushed open my window before getting into bed, there stole into my room together with the sweet scent of jessamine and climbing roses the sound of subdued voices.
"He must be told," I heard my father say solemnly. "God give me strength."
Then the voices ceased for a while, but I still lingered, and presently they began again, but in a more cheerful key.
I moved away and got into bed, but I left the window open as I always did, and some fragments of their conversation still reached me.
"I am sure that you need have no fear, Herbert. No one in these parts can have the slightest idea of ... I hope you will ... It will be a change ... Now promise."
I could hear nothing of my father's reply, but from its tone he seemed reluctant, though wishful. Then the voices dropped again, and I think that I must have dozed for some time. But suddenly I awoke and sat up in bed startled, for my father's voice was ringing in through the window.
"You are right, Marian; you are right. I will do my duty. The boy must be told. The time has come when I must dig up my trouble again. The boy must be told."
Then I heard them enter the house (leaving the door wide open, as was our common practice), and come up to their rooms. Afterwards there was silence, but there was no more sleep for me that night.