"You should have thought of decency sooner."
"I know. I know."
"You'd better tell me the whole thing. Then we'll talk lawyers."
So Maurice began the squalid story. Twice he stopped, choking down excuses that laid the blame on Eleanor.... "It wouldn't have happened if I hadn't been—been bothered." And again, "Something had thrown me off the track; and I met Lily, and—"
At last it was all said, and he had not skulked behind his wife. He had told everything, except those explaining things that could not be told.
When the story was ended there was silence. The older man, guessing the untold things, could not trust himself to speak his pity and anger and dismay. But in that moment of silence the comfort of confession made the tears stand in the boy's eyes; he said, impulsively, "Uncle Henry, I thought you'd kick me out of the house!"
Henry Houghton blew his nose, and spoke with husky harshness. "Eleanor has no suspicions?" (He, too, was choking down references to Eleanor which must not be spoken.)
"No. Do you think I ought to—to tell—?"
"No! No! With some women you could make a clean breast... I know a woman—her husband hadn't a secret from her; and I know he was a fool before his marriage! He made a clean breast of it, and she married him. But she knew the soul of him, you see? She knew that this sort of rotten foolishness was only his body. So he worshiped her. Naturally. Properly. She meant God to him... Mighty few women like that! Candidly, I don't think your wife is one of them. Besides, this is after marriage. That's different, Maurice. Very different. It isn't a square deal."
Maurice made a miserable shamed sound of agreement. Then he said, huskily, "Of course I won't lie; I'll just—not tell her."