“I hope you’ll always be silent,” the girl shared in his drolling. She began and told the whole story to the last detail, sparing neither herself nor Verrian, who listened as if he were some one else not concerned, and kept saying to himself, “what courage!” Bushwick listened as mutely, with a face that, to Verrian’s eye, seemed to harden from its light jocosity into a severity he had not seen in it before. “It was something,” she ended towards Bushwick, with a catch in her breath, “that you had to know.” “Yes,” he answered, tonelessly. “And now”--she attempted a little forlorn playfulness--“don’t you think he gave me what I deserved?” Bushwick rose up and took her hand under his arm, keeping his left hand upon hers. “He! Who?” “Mr. Verrian.” “I don’t know any Mr. Verrian. Come, you’ll take cold here.” He turned his back on Verrian, who fancied a tremor in her hat, as if she would look round at him; but then, as if she divined Bushwick’s intention, she did not look round, and together they left him. It was days before Verrian could confess himself of the fact to his mother, who listened with the justice instinctive in her. She still had not spoken when he ended, and he said, “I have thought it all over, and I feel that he did right. He did the only thing that a man in love with her could do. And I don’t wonder he’s in love with her. Yes”--he stayed his mother, imperatively--“and such a man as he, though he ground me in the dirt and stamped on me, I will say, it, is worthy of any woman. He can believe in a woman, and that’s the first thing that’s needed to make a woman like her, true. I don’t envy his job.” He was speaking self-contradictorily, irrelevantly, illogically, as a man thinks. He went on in that way, getting himself all out. “She isn’t single-hearted, but she’s faithful. She’ll never betray him now. She’s never given him any reason to distrust her. She’s the kind that can keep on straight with any one she’s begun straight with. She told him all that before me be cause she wanted me to know--to realize--that she had told him. It took courage.” Mrs. Verrian had thought of generalizing, but she seized a single point. “Perhaps not so much courage as you think. You mustn’t let such bravado impose upon you, Philip. I’ve no doubt she knew her ground.” “She took the chance of his casting her off.” “She knew he wouldn’t. She knew him, and she knew you. She knew that if he cast her off--” “Mother! Don’t say it! I can’t bear it!” His mother did not say it, or anything more, then. Late at night she came to him. “Are you asleep, Philip?” “Asleep? I!” “I didn’t suppose you were. But I have had a note to-day which I must answer. Mrs. Andrews has asked us to dinner on Saturday. Philip, if you could see that sweet girl as I do, in all her goodness and sincerity--” “I think I do, mother. And I wouldn’t be guilty of her unhappiness for the world. You must decline.”