But even as he spoke, he saw knowledge dawn painfully on her face. His shelter, after all, was too small; once her glance turned that way, once her mind started upon conjectures, discovery had been inevitable. "Oh!" she cried, in a choked voice.... "It is Professor Nicolovius!" He looked at her steadily; no change passed over his face. When all was said, he was glad to have the whole truth out; and he knew the secret to be as safe with her as with himself. "No one must know," he said sadly, "until his death. That is not far away, I think." She dropped into a chair, and suddenly buried her face in her hands. Surface's son had risen with her, but he did not resume his seat. He stood looking down at her bowed head, and the expression in his eyes, if she had looked up and captured it, might have taken her completely by surprise. His chance, indeed, had summoned him, though not for the perfect sacrifice. Circumstance had crushed out most of the joy of giving. For, first, she had suspected him, which nothing could ever blot out; and now, when she knew the truth about him, there could hardly be much left for him to give. It needed no treacherous editorial to make her hate the son of his father; their friendship was over in any case. Still, it was his opportunity to do for her something genuine and large; to pay in part the debt he owed her--the personal and living debt, which was so much greater than the dead thing of principal and interest. No, no. It was not endurable that this proud little lady, who kept her head so high, should find at the last moment, this stain upon her lover's honor. She dropped her hands and lifted a white face. "And you--" she began unsteadily, but checked herself and went on in a calmer voice. "And you--after what he has done to you, too--you are going to stand by him--take his name--accept that inheritance--_be_ his son?" "What else is there for me to do?" Their eyes met, and hers were hurriedly averted. "Don't you think," he said, "that that is the only thing to do?" Again she found it impossible to endure the knowledge of his fixed gaze. She rose once more and stood at the mantel, her forehead leaned against her hand upon it, staring unseeingly down into the fire. "How can I tell you how fine a thing you are doing--how big--and splendid--when--" A dark red color flooded his face from neck to forehead; it receded almost violently leaving him whiter than before. "Not at all! Not in the least!" he said, with all his old impatience. "I could not escape if I would." She seemed not to hear him. "How can I tell you that--and about how sorry I am--when all the time it seems that I can think only of--something else!" "You are speaking of the reformatory," he said, with bracing directness. There followed a strained silence. "Oh," broke from her--"how could you bear to do it?"