No reply was forthcoming from the pale man of whom she was speaking, and suddenly the new-comer turned upon him. "What is the matter here, anyway?" he almost fiercely demanded. "Matter?" William asked, with a start. "Where? What do you mean?" "Why, we don't seem to be getting anywhere," the old man answered, petulantly. "Both of you somehow seem changed. You don't seem to know much about the affair. I expected, when I saw you, to learn something more than has been published, but you both talk in riddles and in a shifting, roundabout way." To his astonishment, Celeste got up and left the room, closing the door behind her. The two men stared at each other. "You must excuse her," William finally said. "She is all upset over it. She has shut herself in and doesn't go out at all now. She has refused to receive several callers. She goes about with Ruth a little, but that is all." "Ah, I see--the shame of it, I presume!" the old man said. "Well, I can sympathize with her. She thought a lot of Charlie. Perhaps she can't find it in her heart to blame him seriously. Women are that way, you know. She used to overlook his wild conduct, I remember. Well, well! Perhaps we might as well not talk about it before her. She seems different to me--looks as if she were soured on everything and everybody. Now when I said just now that I was going to pay half the loss, instead of looking pleased I thought she half resented it." "You must not blame her," William said, with drawn lips. "She has a lot to bear. She feels the--the disgrace of it on Ruth's account." "We all feel the disgrace of it," the old man answered, "but women are more sensitive, imaginative, and high-strung than men." "Celeste may have gone to see about your room," William said, just as the church-bells began ringing. He caught their tones and hoped that they would somehow interrupt a conversation which he felt he could no longer sustain. The old man was on his feet now, having risen at the departure of Celeste, and he began to stride back and forth across the room. He folded his hands and wrung them together. He muttered some words which William failed to catch, as he paused at a window, and then he came back. "If it is hard for me, I presume it is even harder for you to bear," he said, aloud. "On the way over, as I sat in the sun in my steamer chair, with nothing else to think about, I often pictured you there at the bank with those associates. My reason tells me that they are sympathetic with you and must feel a certain regret for allowing you to pay back such a large amount; still, if I may be allowed to say so, you must feel awkward. You must meet big depositors who--well, who think perhaps that you ought to have had better judgment than not to have kept track of the boy's plunging. To have retained a dissipated young scamp like that in your employment was imprudent in itself, to say nothing of all the rest."