told me that he was wrong; my observation of the actualities
of life made me fear that he might be right. Theoretically, I
could not have been mistaken in my course; practically, I began
to see weak spots in the chain of evidence. Swiftly, I ran over
the events of the spring and summer, and as little spots no
bigger than a man's hand magnified themselves into black clouds,
Bunsey, sitting opposite, seemed to grow larger and larger, and
his smile more malicious and demon-like. Possibly, had I been a
younger and more impetuous man, I should have flown into a
passion, taken Bunsey at his word, and kicked him out of the
house; but the philosophy of the thing engrossed me, filled me
with half fear, half curiosity, and engaged all my mental
faculties. Had I been mistaken? Could I be deceived in the
daughter of Sylvia?

However strong my suspicions may have been, they were not
increased when, with the evening, Phyllis and Frederick came home
from their excursion. Never was Phyllis more unreserved, more
cordial, more joyous, more attentive to the little wants, which
I, in a mean and shameful test, imposed on her. She could not be
acting a part, this New England girl, with her alert conscience,
her Puritan impulse and training, her aversion to everything that
savored of deceit. And Frederick was as much at his ease as if I
knew nothing, as if I had not heard of his duplicity, as if the
whole house and grounds were not ringing with accusations of his
unworthiness. Such are the phenomena of the philosophy of middle
life, I insisted that he should remain for the evening, and,
after dinner, with that contrariness accountable only in a true
student of psychology, I made a trifling excuse and walked down
to the square, leaving them together.

The curfew was ringing as, returning, I entered the lower gate at
the end of the garden, and passed slowly along by the arbor. It
may have been Providence, it may have been chance, it certainly
was not philosophy that directed my steps to the far side of the
syringa hedge which shut me off from the view of those who might
come down to the rustic seat at the foot of the cherry tree. At
least I had no intention of playing the spy, and when I heard
Frederick's voice, and knew instinctively that Phyllis was with
him, I quickened my pace that I might not be a sharer of their
secrets. But an irresistible impulse made me pause when I heard
the foolish fellow say:

"After to-night I shall not come