“Dear Cecily, I’m so sorry to overburden you with another worry just now, but some one else will tell you if I don’t. You are bound to hear it about town in a day or so. And Leslie and I wanted to know what you thought about it before we decided finally what our attitude should be.” “What has happened?” “I had a letter yesterday from Walter. It seems he is married.” “Walter--at college--married? But he’s only twenty.” “Twenty-one to-morrow.” Such sorrow in poor Mrs. Warner’s voice as she reflected on that birthday. “But are you sure? To whom?” “To a girl he met in the town there. He wrote me simply that he was married and that he hoped we’d like Della. She is very pretty.” “But why marry her this way, mother? Why----” She stopped with a possible answer flashing through her own mind. “He wrote your father, too. I didn’t see that letter. Leslie said it was confidential, but he seemed to think Walter had done the only thing. He compromised the girl in some way. It seems they were out all night in an automobile--and there was talk.” Neither woman spoke for a moment. Delicacy, fine distaste put an end to the conversation. Cecily’s face grew harder than her mother’s. “Poor mother, poor mother.” “But I’m glad he married her, Cecily. It’s not so bad for him as the other thing would have been. I couldn’t have borne the other thing. I saw enough of that once. This shows at least that he has--conscience.” Cecily stood, meditating harshly on a probable Della. “Where did he meet her?” “At some dance in the town. She seems to be just an ordinary girl. And of course I don’t know anything against her. We must think nothing. Probably she was only as foolish as many girls are nowadays. Your father thinks we must accept it and bring Walter and his wife home.” “Walter didn’t say anything about this at Christmas time.” “No. I don’t believe he contemplated anything of the sort then. It was sudden--as much so to him as to us, perhaps.” “Mother, you seem so excusing, so tolerant! Do we just have to accept a situation like this? Can the girl expect to be treated like the wife of your son? This girl who let herself be compromised.” Mrs. Warner gave again that queer impression of treating her trouble as if it had happened to some one else. In contrast to Cecily’s protest she drew back a little. “She is your brother’s wife, Cecily.” “She has no right to such a title!” “I was afraid you’d take it like this. You mustn’t be so hard, Cecily. You must be tolerant.” “I’m tired of tolerance for laxity. I’m tired of moral laxity, of cheapness of ideals. Why should those of us who are decent do the work for the ones who aren’t decent?” “Work?” “Work. Have the children and try to keep them clean and healthy and fine, while the women who won’t have children, who won’t work, won’t do anything but play, get the real interest of every one?” “They don’t; they don’t get the real respect of people. There may be a kind of attraction, but it’s hardly skin-deep.”