"Of course not. Oh, my poor Maurice! Does Eleanor know?"
"Heavens, no! It wouldn't do."
"Honey, the unforgivable thing, to a woman, is not the sin, but the deceit. And, besides, Eleanor loves him enough to forgive him. She would die for him, I really believe!"
"Yet the green-eyed monster looks out of her eyes if he plays checkers with Edith! My darling," said Henry Houghton, "as I have before remarked, your ignorance on this one subject is colossal. Women can't stand truth."
"It's a provision of nature, then, that all men are liars?" she inquired, sweetly; "Henry, the loss of Edith's board won't trouble Maurice much, will it?"
"Not as much, of course, now that he has all his money; but he has to scratch gravel to make four ends meet," Henry Houghton said.
"Four ends!" she said; "oh, is it as bad as that? He has to support—somebody?"
He said, "Yes; so long as you have guessed. Mary, I really must have a smoke."
"Why am I so weak-minded as to give in to you!" she sighed; then handed him the cigar box, and scratched a match for him; he held her wrist—the sputtering match in her fingers—lighted the cigar, blew out the match, and kissed her hand.
"You are a snooper and a porcupine about tobacco; but otherwise quite a nice woman," he said.