"Oh, Kit, it's a horrid mess!" he groaned; "I thought that boy had got to the top of Fool Hill when he married Eleanor! But he hadn't."
"Can't tell me, I suppose?"
"No. Mary, mayn't I have a cigar? I'm really awfully used up, and—"
"Henry! You are perfectly depraved! No; you may not. Drink your cocoa, honey. And consider the stars;—they shine, even above Fool Hill. And 'messes' look mighty small beside the Pleiades!" Then she turned a page of her novel, and added, "Poor Eleanor."
"I don't know why you say 'Poor Eleanor'!"
"Because I know that Maurice isn't sharing his 'mess' with her."
"You are uncanny!" Henry Houghton said, stirring his cocoa and looking at her admiringly.
"No; merely intelligent. Henry, don't let him have any secrets from Eleanor! Tell him to tell her. She'll forgive him."
"She's not that kind, Mary."
"Dear, almost every woman is 'that kind'! It's deception, not confession, that makes them—the other kind. If Maurice will confess—"