“Oh, yes, I have!” Felix declared, with some spirit; “before I knew better. But you don’t catch me at it again.”
Mr. Wentworth maintained for a while a silence more expressive than a deep-drawn sigh. “You have no children,” he said at last.
“Don’t tell me,” Felix exclaimed, “that your charming young people are a source of grief to you!”
“I don’t speak of Charlotte.” And then, after a pause, Mr. Wentworth continued, “I don’t speak of Gertrude. But I feel considerable anxiety about Clifford. I will tell you another time.”
The next time he gave Felix a sitting his nephew reminded him that he had taken him into his confidence. “How is Clifford today?” Felix asked. “He has always seemed to me a young man of remarkable discretion. Indeed, he is only too discreet; he seems on his guard against me—as if he thought me rather light company. The other day he told his sister—Gertrude repeated it to me—that I was always laughing at him. If I laugh it is simply from the impulse to try and inspire him with confidence. That is the only way I have.”
“Clifford’s situation is no laughing matter,” said Mr. Wentworth. “It is very peculiar, as I suppose you have guessed.”
“Ah, you mean his love affair with his cousin?”
Mr. Wentworth stared, blushing a little. “I mean his absence from college. He has been suspended. We have decided not to speak of it unless we are asked.”
“Suspended?” Felix repeated.
“He has been requested by the Harvard authorities to absent himself for six months. Meanwhile he is studying with Mr. Brand. We think Mr. Brand will help him; at least we hope so.”