Slowly, then, Mr. Ewing began to see. And remotely it began to dawn upon him—the thing “she” in her anger had done. For there was no doubt that the thing was done. The man’s faith and belief in himself, in the cleanness and simplicity of his own motives, were gone—and gone in a single devastating blow from which he had not, and could never, recover. And, searching for the right thing to say, Mr. Ewing stumbled, as one always will, upon the one thing he should never have said:
“But you know better than that. You know it’s not so.”
Corey’s answer was not argumentative; it only stated, wearily, the fact which from the first had seemed to possess his mind:
“No, I don’t know it’s not so. I’ve never been able to give any reasons for doing the things myself. You’ve asked me why.... I couldn’t tell.”
“Why, it was youth,” said Mr. Ewing, and one can imagine him saying it, gently, as an old-fashioned physician might offer his homely remedy to a patient whose knowledge exceeded his own. “Men do those things when they’re young.”
And Corey, rejecting the simple, old-fashioned cure, made an attempt at a smile for the kindness in which it was offered. “All men are young, some time,” he said; “all men don’t do them.”
“But you happened to be the kind who would.” And at this Corey made no attempt to smile.
“That’s it!” he said. “I wasn’t the kind. I was the kind to stay at home.... I know that. I was always happier here in Dubuque. And now—this last— You’d hardly say that was on account of my youth!”
“No—but it had got into your blood.”
Corey at this gave a start and looked up suddenly at Mr. Ewing. “Into my blood— It’s the very word she used! When she admitted I might not have known it myself, she said she supposed it was just ‘in my blood’!”