"Of course she didn't. How young you are! It is rather too bad of a woman of Sylvia's experience."
"And I've bought our passages for to-morrow. I cannot let her go without some sort of good-bye."
"Give the tickets to me. I can make use of them. How much are they? Let's see."
The calculation made and the money passed across, I said abruptly,—
"Now supposing we go and see your wife."
"You have saved my life," he said hoarsely, pressing my hand as we rose.
"I don't know about that," I said inwardly; "but I do hope I have saved your wife."
As I thought of that, a fear occurred to me.
"Look here," I said, as we strolled towards the Twelve Golden-Haired, "I hope you have no silly notions about confession, about telling the literal truth and so on. Because I want you to promise me that you will lie stoutly to your wife about Sylvia Joy. You must swear the whole thing has been platonic. It's the only chance for your happiness. Your wife, no doubt, will lure you on to confession by saying that she doesn't mind this, that, and the other, so long as you don't keep it from her; and no doubt she will mean it till you have confessed. But, however good their theories, women by nature cannot help confusing body and soul, and what to a man is a mere fancy of the senses, to them is a spiritual tragedy. Promise me to lie stoutly on this point. It is, I repeat, the only chance for your future happiness. As has been wisely said, a lie in time saves nine; and such a lie as I advise is but one of the higher forms of truth. Such lying, indeed, is the art of telling the truth. The truth is that you love her body, soul, and spirit; any accidental matter which should tend to make her doubt that would be the only real lie. Promise me, won't you?"
"Yes, I will lie," said Orlando.