“Professor Deering—Professor Deering—” But Quincy could not go on. He arose to his feet. That helped. But what he said amazed him as deeply as the other. “Professor Deering—tell me about you and your wife.”
Mr. Deering took the remark without a tremor. His face darkened and his brow brooded. His clasped hands fell forward to his side. He did not mistake the nature of the boy.
“You have a right to know?” he asked, softly.
“I love her, Professor Deering.”
They stood, not far apart, facing each other, firmly. And in the pause, neither of them breathed. It seemed to Quincy at that moment impossible that all this should be true. He watched the scene with a fiendish interest, as if waiting for an inevitable ruin.
The Professor swallowed hard. And then, he spoke.
“You love her. So do I. That gives you a right to ask what you have asked. Sit down.”
He gestured the boy back into his seat.
“We are in strangely similar positions, Mr. Burt. We both love her. Neither of us has her. There is no more to say.”