“Well, all right,” he gestured. “I suppose I should have told you in the first place. But mind you, this is in the strictest confidence. I’ve got your word of honor you won’t repeat a word?” I indicated that he had. “After all,” he continued, “you acted square enough about quitting your job rather than letting poor Dora go ahead with it. It’s only due you that I tell you the truth. You see, we were right up against it. Dora’s the finest woman in the world, and I’m proud to know her. But every now and then she gets obstinate. And just because her kids don’t like Thomas, and I don’t like him, and you don’t like him, she gets it into her head that there’s a conspiracy against the poor boy. She thinks there’s something fine in him that nobody else can see. Well, I knew what was coming. When she sprang the news, it was no news to me, and it was no news to Henry. So we decided on that cheap trick. Oh, I know it was cheap. But that’s the sort of thing that makes an impression on Dora, if you know what I mean. “She should have been an actress. She likes to do the ordinary things in a big, exciting way. And we figured--well, to be frank, I did, because Henry didn’t want to scare his mother--fine boy, Henry--we figured that if she could get the idea that she’s sacrificing her big love for her children, she’d be more excited about that than marrying this damn fool she’s toting around. And I was right.” There was a touch of pride in his voice. “She’s down with Henry now, and she can’t do enough for him. So--there’s the whole story and I’m glad I told you, and I know from my experience with the newspaper boys that it’s safe in your keeping.” He rose. “Any questions?” He smiled disarmingly and his eyes which could be agate were merry and frank. I shook my head. “Glad I told you,” he said in parting. “You newspaper fellows find out everything if you’re told or not. Hanged if I see how you do it!” I could not tell him that all credit was due Mr. Thomas, and not me. Then I realized in surprise that the actor was perhaps not quite as vacuous as I imagined. Or perhaps he was super-sensitive to events that concerned his own welfare. No one appeared at dinner save myself, and I dined in solitary state. Apparently even Mr. Thomas had deserted me. So, after dinner, I strolled out on deck. There was but a faint moon, and the sky was starless, but the night was warm and the southern waters placid. I breathed deeply, and having caught the first harbinger of the gentle climate, bitterly regretted the necessity of returning to riveting machines and dust-laden pavements.