in mystery. There were whole realms of subjects
that were not talked between the sexes. We managed things by mild
indirections, by absurd circumlocutions.

I began to think of the letter that Lamborn had written Zoe. I was
carrying it in my pocket. Did it not prove Lamborn's interest in Zoe? I
handed it to Dorothy, thinking that it would disprove my interest in
Zoe, of which I had been made self-conscious by the accusations; and not
realizing that Dorothy probably knew nothing of all these charges. "Read
this," I said, handing it to Dorothy.

Dorothy took it in at a glance, for it was only a few lines beginning
"Dear Zoe." It was an invitation to Zoe to meet Lamborn again at the
same place. Dorothy's face turned crimson. She handed the note back to
me without a word. I had to struggle with the tough materials of the
revelation that I wished to make. And I went on to tell Dorothy that the
author of the note was Lamborn. "You remember him?" I asked. Dorothy
nodded her head. "Well," I continued, "he is dead, thank God. I killed
him."

Dorothy was overcome. She reeled. After a moment, in which she found her
breath again, she faced about and began to walk toward the town.

I followed, hurt and crushed; for Dorothy had suddenly changed her whole
manner. Her face was impenetrable; and it had paralyzed my hope with its
expression of self-withdrawal, something almost of anger. I could not go
on now and tell my story: that I had killed Lamborn because of his
offense against Zoe, because of his menacing attitude toward me, because
of the vile things he had said about Zoe. No! nothing I could say now
would be in place. I had blundered, perhaps. We walked to the house,
silent all the way.

Dorothy went to her room, leaving me in the hands of her mother. Mrs.
Clayton, thinking that we had had a lovers' quarrel, endeavored by extra
attention to me to overcome Dorothy's absence, and to say to me in this
way that she did not share in Dorothy's attitude.

And so it was that Mrs. Clayton and I dined together; and I now had
opportunity to tell her of little Amos, of my life in England, of my
farm, my new house, my plans for the future. Mrs. Clayton was outspoken
enough. She said that Reverdy admired my father for many things, and did
not particularly censure his marriage. As for that it was a common
enough thing in the South for the planters to have children by negro
women, or by the prettier quadroons and octoroons. For herself she