But her husband said, quickly, "Mary, living with a quarreling father and mother is spiritual illegitimacy; and the disadvantages of that would be worse than the material handicap of being a—a fatherless child."
His daughter flashed a passionately grateful look at him.
Maurice, still speaking to Edith's mother, said: "That's the way I looked at it, Mrs. Houghton. So it seemed to me that I could do more for him if I didn't marry Lily."
Mary Houghton was silent; it was very necessary to consider the stars.
"I put myself out of it," Maurice said. "I just said, 'If it's best for Jacky, I'll ask her to marry me,' My honest opinion was that it would be bad for him."
Edith struck two chords—and sat down on the piano stool, swallowing hard.
"You don't agree with me, I'm afraid, Mrs. Houghton?" he said, anxiously.
"My dear boy," she said, "I am sure you are doing what you believe to be right. But it does not seem right to me."
He flinched, but he was not shaken; "It isn't going to be easy, whatever I do. I want to educate him, and see him constantly, and influence him as much as possible. And Lily will be less jealous of me, in her own house, than she would be in mine."
Edith got up and came and sat on the arm of the sofa by her father. "I can see," she said, "how much easier it would be for Maurice to do the hard thing."