of
you?"

Maurice had listened, silently, his elbow on his knee, his fist hard
against his mouth; he did not try to tell her why he had "let on"; he
could not say that he wanted to defend his son from such a mother; still
less could he make clear to her that Eleanor had not "ragged it out of
him," but that, to his famished passion for truth, confession had been
the Bread of Life. He looked at her once or twice as she talked; pretty,
yet; kindly, coarse, honest--and Eleanor had supposed that he would
marry her! Then, sharply, his mind pictured that scene: his wife, his
poor, frightened old Eleanor, pleading for the gift of Jacky! And
Lily--young, arrogant, kind.... The pain of it made his passion of pity
so like love that the tears stood in his eyes. "Oh, she _mustn't_ die,"
he thought; "I won't let her die!"

When Lily had finished her story he told her his, very briefly: his
wife's forgiveness of his unfaithfulness; her desire to do all she could
for Jacky: "Help me--I mean help you--to make a man of him, because she
loves me. Heaven knows I'm not worthy of it."

Lily gulped. "She ain't young; but, my God, she's some woman!" She threw
her apron over her face and cried hard; then stopped and wiped her eyes.
"She wants to see him, does she? Well, you bet she shall see him! I'll
get him; he's playing in at Mr. Dennett's--he's all on being an
undertaker now. Mr. Dennett's a Funeral Pomps Director. But he's got to
put on his new suit." She ran out on to the porch, and Maurice could
hear the colloquy across the fence: "You come in the house, quick!"

"Won't. We're going to in-in-inter a hen."

"Yes, you will! You're going to put on your new suit and go and see a
lady--"

"Lady? Not on your life."

"It's Mr. Curtis wants you--" Then Jacky's yell, "_Mr. Curtis?_" and a
dash up the back steps and into the dining room--then, silent, grimy
adoration!

Maurice gave his orders. "Change your clothes, young man. I'll bring him
back, Lily, as soon as she's seen him."

While he waited for the new suit Maurice walked up and down the little
room, round and round the table, where on a turkey-red cloth a hideous
hammered brass bowl held some lovely maidenhair ferns. The vision of
Eleanor abasing herself to Lily was unendurable. To drive it from his
mind, he went to the window and stood looking out through the fragrant
greenness of rose geraniums, into the squalid street where the offspring
of the Funeral Pomps Director were fig