She had no need to write. She
might have known, or have taken it for granted."

Gerard studied the view presented of his companion, striving to draw
some conclusion from pose or tone. He had no mind to have his work of
months marred and his driver distracted by an interlude of useless
sentimentality; the temptation to congratulate Corrie upon his freedom
from an unsuitable marriage was almost too strong. But what he actually
said was quite different, and escaped from his lips without
consideration of its effect.

"I should not have supposed your cousin had so fine and strict a sense
of honor."

The oval brush slipped through Corrie's fingers and fell to the floor,
rolling jerkily away with the light glinting on its silver mounting in a
series of heliographic flashes. The owner stooped to recover it, groping
for the conspicuous object as if the room were dark instead of flooded
with the brightness of late afternoon.

"What do you mean?" he demanded. "What did you say? Her sense of
honor----?"

"I beg your pardon," Gerard promptly apologized, aware of worse than
indiscretion. "I, really, Corrie, I hardly realized what I was saying.
Certainly I did not mean that the way it sounded. I only intended to
say----"

What had he intended to say? What could he substitute for the spoken
truth that would not wound the hearer either for himself or for the
girl he loved?

"I only meant," he recommenced, "that her asking your formal release
showed a careful punctiliousness not common."

Corrie had recovered his brush, now. He laid it on the chiffonier before
answering.

"How do we know what is common? What is honor, anyway; what other people
see or what you are? I fancy she wouldn't have written if she hadn't
been sure of what I'd say," he retorted, with the first cynicism Gerard
ever had seen in him. "She likes me to take the responsibility, that's
about all. Well, I've done it. Did you say I was keeping dinner
waiting?"

This of the once-adored Isabel! However much relief the older man felt,
there came with it a sensation of shock and regret. Had Corrie lost so
much of his youth, unsuspected by his daily companion? Where were the
old illusions which should have blurred this sharp judgment? He made
some brief reply, and presently they went downstairs.

The dinner was rather a silent affair.

"Do you want to drive me into town?" Gerard inquired, at its conclusion.
"I find that I must see Carruthers before he leaves for