"Awfully sorry, you know," he said clumsily, but this time sincerely. "I don't suppose it makes any difference to you that your father--well, I'd better not talk about it. But you see--Elizabeth might marry anybody. She might have married heaps of times since Merton died, if she hadn't been such an icicle. She's got lots of money, and--well, I don't want to be snobbish--but at home--we--our family--"
"I understand," said Anderson, perhaps a little impatiently--"you are great people. I understood that all along."
Family pride cried out in Philip. "Then why the deuce--" But he said aloud in some confusion, "I suppose that sounded disgusting"--then floundering deeper--"but you see--well, I'm very fond of Elizabeth!"
Anderson rose and walked to the window which commanded a view of the railway line.
"I see the car outside. I'll go and have a few words with Yerkes."
The boy let him go in silence--conscious on the one hand that he had himself played a mean part in their conversation, and on the other that Anderson, under this onset of sordid misfortune, was somehow more of a hero in his eyes, and no doubt in other people's, than ever.
On his way downstairs Anderson ran into Delaine, who was ascending with an armful of books and pamphlets.
"Oh, how do you do? Had only just heard you were here. May I have a word with you?"
Anderson remounted the stairs in silence, and the two men paused, seeing no one in sight, in the corridor beyond.
"I have just read the report of the inquest, and should like to offer you my sincere sympathy and congratulations on your very straightforward behaviour--" Anderson made a movement. Delaine went on hurriedly--