Late that night Sue came into his room and found him reading and smoking by the fire.
“Cheeky of Morrison, dimming your star,” he said, looking at her and laughing apologetically.
Sue looked at him doubtfully.
“I came in to thank you for bringing him,” she said; “I thought him splendid.”
Sam looked at her and for a moment was tempted to let the matter pass. And then his old inclination to be always open and frank with her asserted itself and he closed the book and rising stood looking down at her.
“The little beast was guying your crowd,” he said, “but I do not want him to guy you. Not that he wouldn’t try. He has the audacity for anything.”
A flush arose to her cheeks and her eyes gleamed.
“That is not true, Sam,” she said coldly. “You say that because you are becoming hard and cold and cynical. Your friend Morrison talked from his heart. It was beautiful. Men like you, who have a strong influence over him, may lead him away, but in the end a man like that will come to give his life to the service of society. You should help him; not assume an attitude of unbelief and laugh at him.”
Sam stood upon the hearth smoking his pipe and looking at her. He was thinking how easy it would have been in the first year after their marriage to have explained Morrison. Now he felt that he was but making a bad matter worse, but went on determined to stick to his policy of being entirely honest with her.
“Look here, Sue,” he began quietly, “be a good sport. Morrison was joking. I know the man. He is the friend of men like me because he wants to be and because it pays him to be. He is a talker, a writer, a talented, unscrupulous word-monger. He is making a big salary by taking the ideas of men like me and expressing them better than we can ourselves. He is a good workman and a generous, open-hearted fellow with a lot of nameless charm in him, but a man of convictions he is not. He could talk tears into the eyes of your fallen women, but he would be a lot more likely to talk good women into their state.”