He was holding her hand and he felt the ripples of her agitation. "I think I know your secret," he said. "You have cause to believe that his mind is giving way and you don’t want to distress me by confessing it—have been sworn to silence, as if it could be kept hidden from me." She admitted that she did not believe that his mind was sound, and he accepted it as the secret which she had at first held back, but her conscience arose against the deception of leaving him so completely in the dark. "Howard, you have often said in your joking way that I have the honor of a man." "Yes, the honor of the Roman famed for honor. But honor can be cool, and I need something warmer, now—love. I am, as you know, deeply distressed at father’s condition; it has changed nearly all my plans—every plan, in fact, except the one great plan—our plan. Mother begs me to be patient. But for what end, if there is to be no improvement in his treatment of me? I took a hint from Uncle William, not intended for me, that there has been insanity in the family. That’s a comforting thought, now, isn’t it? Why do you tremble so?" "Because I believe that there is truth in Uncle William’s hint." "But it should not have any effect upon our plans—our marriage." "I would marry you, Howard, if you were a maniac." They were in the dark, and he put his arm about her. "Then, let the whole world go insane," he said. The soft air murmured among the leaves of the cottonwood. A band of happy children danced about an organ grinder in the street. A fraudulent newsboy cried a murder in Indiana Avenue, and from afar came as if in echo, "All about the murder on Prairie Avenue." "Howard, knowing me as you do, and supposing that I had not told all I know, and I were to ask you to wait, what would you say?" "Not knowing you so well I would say, ’out with it,’ but knowing you, I would say, ’wait.’ But what do you mean?" "I mean to wait four weeks and no longer." "Now you begin to mystify me. But we’ll not think about it. I wonder what’s the trouble with George. I never saw a fellow change so. I believe that fellow Goyle is having a bad influence on him. There is something uncanny about that chap. Did you ever notice his eyes? They have a sort of a draw, like a nerve. Have you noticed it?" "I have noticed that I don’t like him. He looks like a professional spiritualist." "I guess he is in one sense—in slate writing—guess he has most everything put down on the slate." "I don’t know what you mean." "Has everything charged that he can. He’s a fraud, no doubt." "Agnes says so." "Oh, well, what Agnes says couldn’t be taken as evidence. She sees a man and has a sort of flutter. If the flutter’s pleasant the man’s all right; if it isn’t, he’s all wrong." "But there might be intuition in a flutter," she said.