"Maurice," said Henry Houghton, "keep the peace. If you and Eleanor have fallen out, don't stand on your dignity. Go upstairs and say you're sorry, whether you are or not. Don't talk about lawyers."
"My God!" said Maurice; "did you suppose it was that?"
Mr. Houghton stopped biting the end of his cigar, and looked at him. "Why, yes; I did. You and she are rather foolish, you know. So I supposed—"
Maurice dropped his face on his arms on the big dusty table, littered with pamphlets and charcoal studies and squeezed-out paint tubes. After a while he lifted his head: "That's nothing. I wish it was that."
The older man rose and stood with his back to the mantelpiece. They both heard the clock ticking loudly. Then, almost in a whisper, Maurice said:
"I've been—blackmailed."
Mr. Houghton whistled.
"I've had a letter from a woman. She says—"
"Has she got anything on you?"
"No proof; but—"