em both as--otherwise; then there's
the lie of pride, and, as that goes along with the fool's lie, we'll
throw it out with the--otherwise--and the coward's lie also goes with
the otherwise." Larry shook his fingers as if he tossed the four lies
off from their tips, and began again. "Now. Here's the friend's lie--a
man risks his soul to save a friend--good--or to help him out of
trouble--very well. And then there's the lover's lie, it's what a lad
tells his sweetheart--that goes along with what she tells him--and
comes by way of nature--"

"Or you might class it along with your own blarney."

"Let be, lad. I'm teaching you the diplomacy, now. Then there's the
lie of shame, and the lie of sorrow, wherein a man puts by, for his
own loved one's sake, or his self-respect, what's better covered;
that, too, comes by way of nature, even as a dog crawls away to die
alone, and we'll accept it. Now comes the lie of the man who would
tell a good tale for the amusement of his friends; very well, the
nature of man loves it, so we'll count it in, and along with it comes
a host of little lies like the sportsman's lie and the traveler's
lie--they all help to make life merry, and the world can ill do
without them. But now comes the lie of circumspection. You must learn
to lie it without lying. See? It's the lie of wisdom, and it's a very
subtle thing, and easily abused. If a man uses it for a selfish cause
and merely to pervert the truth, it's a black lie, and one of the very
worst. Or he may use it in a good cause, and it's fairly white. It
must be used with discrimination. That's the lie I used for the poor
Madam down there."

"But what did you say?"

"She says to me, 'And where is my 'usband?' I reply, 'Madam, your
husband is in a very safe and secret place,'--and that is true
enough--'where his enemies will never find him,'--and for all we know
that is also true. 'But I cannot understand why he did not come to me.
That is not like my 'usband.' 'No, Madam, it is not. But man must do
what he must, and the way was too long and arduous for his strength;
he could not take the long, weary climb.' And no more could he, true
enough. 'No, Madam, you cannot go to him, nor he come to you, for the
danger of the way and the wild beasts that are abroad looking for
food.' And what more true than that, for did not her daughter see one
hunting for food?

"So she covers her face with her hand and rocks herself back and
forth, and now, lad, here