"When I was young," the old man went on, "a man's claim upon his wife was never questioned. Society managed things better in those days. Ostracism was the fate of the careless woman; and men of your age who sought married women by preference were denied the houses of the young girls of their own condition. If a fellow of your type had oats to sow, he sowed them with a decent privacy instead of bringing his mother, his sister, into contact——"
Cortland straightened up, the tongs in his hand, his face pale with fury, saying in stifled tones:
"For God's sake, stop, or I'll strike you as you sit."
The General moved forward in his chair almost imperceptibly, and the cigar slipped from his fingers and rolled on the hearth. For a long moment the two men looked into each other's eyes, the elder conscious that for the first time in his life he had seen his son really aroused. There was no fear in the father's look, only surprise and a kind of reluctant admiration for a side of Cortland's character he had never seen. He sank back into his chair and looked into the fire.
"Oh!" he muttered.
"You had no right to speak of Mrs. Wray in those terms," said Cortland, his voice still quivering.
"I'm sorry. I did not know."
Cortland set down the fire tongs, his hands trembling, and put both elbows on the mantel-shelf.
"Perhaps, since you know so much," he said in a suppressed voice, "I had better add that I would have married her if Wray hadn't."
"Really? You surprise me."