It was after one o'clock when the two men went upstairs, though there had been another summons over the banisters: "Maurice! Why don't you come to bed?" When they parted at Maurice's door, Mr. Houghton struck his ward on the shoulder and whispered, "You're more than half decent. I'll bet on you!" and Maurice whispered back:
"You're white, Uncle Henry!"
He went into his room on tiptoe, but Eleanor heard him and said, sleepily, "What on earth have you been talking about?"
"Business," Maurice told her.
"Who was your lavender-colored letter from?" Eleanor said, yawning; "I forgot to ask you. It was awfully scented!"
There was an instant's pause; Maurice's lips were dry;—then he said:
"From a woman... About a house. (My God! I've lied to her!)" he said to himself...
Mary Houghton, reading comfortably in bed, looked up at her old husband over her spectacles. "I've heated some cocoa, dear," she said. "Drink it before you undress; you are worn out. What kept you downstairs until this hour?"
"Business."
Mary Houghton smiled: "Might as well tell the truth."