"He feels McComas."
"Why shouldn't he? Who wouldn't?"
Raymond relapsed into a moody silence. I saw, presently, that he was trying to break from it. He had another consideration to offer.
"And then," he began, "about—his mother. He must have understood—something. He must know—by now."
"Know?" I returned. "If he does, he has the advantage over all the rest of us. I don't 'know.' You don't 'know.' Neither does anybody else. Another old matter—as well rectified as society and its usages can manage, and best left alone."
"Well, it's—it's indelicate. Albert ought to feel that."
"Raymond!" I protested. "We must leave it to the young to smooth over the rough old places and to salve the aching old sores. That's their great use and function."
"Not Albert's," he said stubbornly. "I don't want him to do it, and I don't want it done in that way."
Another silence. I could see that he was gathering force for still another objection.
"It's a desertion," said the undying egoist. "It's a piece of treachery. It's a going over to the enemy."