"I'll go," he said. "You see, I was wondering just how to put it to uncle. He will be humiliated in a peculiar way. I hardly know how to say it, but he has all along felt the--the stigma of Charlie's--of what he thinks Charlie did--felt it so keenly that he has overdone his--his praise of me. You understand--of _me_. He has boasted of my--my moral stamina and ability on all occasions, in that way, you see, to make up for Charlie's--or what he thinks was Charlie's bad conduct. It will upset him terribly. It will fill him with chagrin, for--for I and the bank and its success have become his very life. I dread the effect on him. He is old, you know, and not so very strong. What would we do if it were to result disastrously--I mean to him, you understand? If Charlie hadn't done this thing of his own accord--" "Stop, William," Celeste said, with a resolute sigh. "I see how hard it is for you to do. Let me do it. I'll know what to say perhaps better than you. Besides, if you consent to my going to him it will be the same as if you did it. In fact, I'll tell him you sent me." "No, I'll have to put it through," said William, suddenly. He barred the way by thrusting his disengaged hand against the wall, the other still holding on to the balustrade. "Go to your room. I'll attend to it." He moved forward now, and, standing still, she saw him slowly descend the stairs and vanish at the library door. Then she went back to her own room. But she did not disrobe nor turn on the light. She remained sitting in a chair at a window through which the rays of a street lamp fell. She would wait for William's return. She loved him; she was sorry for him; she wanted to cry, but could not. CHAPTER XXXIII