"Oh, I will keep your confidence. You asked me if I would. I will—won't you tell me? Is he here—in the city—?"
"You must not ask me these questions," he said with some evidence of agitation.
But even as he spoke, he saw knowledge dawn painfully on her face. His shelter, after all, was too small; once her glance turned that way, once her mind started upon conjectures, discovery had been inevitable.
"Oh!" she cried, in a choked voice.... "It is Professor Nicolovius!"
He looked at her steadily; no change passed over his face. When all was said, he was glad to have the whole truth out; and he knew the secret to be as safe with her as with himself.
"No one must know," he said sadly, "until his death. That is not far away, I think."
She dropped into a chair, and suddenly buried her face in her hands.
Surface's son had risen with her, but he did not resume his seat. He stood looking down at her bowed head, and the expression in his eyes, if she had looked up and captured it, might have taken her completely by surprise.
His chance, indeed, had summoned him, though not for the perfect sacrifice. Circumstance had crushed out most of the joy of giving. For, first, she had suspected him, which nothing could ever blot out; and now, when she knew the truth about him, there could hardly be much left for him to give. It needed no treacherous editorial to make her hate the son of his father; their friendship was over in any case.
Still, it was his opportunity to do for her something genuine and large; to pay in part the debt he owed her—the personal and living debt, which was so much greater than the dead thing of principal and interest.