"You couldn't have saved me, sir, if that's any satisfaction." "It's no use to think what might have been--" The old man sat down, almost fell into the chair by the window where he had thrown the letter. "Was she a decent woman?" "Was she a--" Ethan repeated, bewildered. "Who is she?" thundered old Tallmadge, with renewed rage. "Almira Marlowe." "Marlowe! Any relation to--" "Daughter of the new Professor of Physics." "Ha! _might_ be worse, I suppose. But--Marlowe? Marlowe? He's the new man, isn't he?" "Yes." "Marlowe? Why, it isn't a month since he was installed." "Six weeks." "And all this happened in six weeks?" "Yes." Mr. Tallmadge's lean face worked, speechless; then, finding a fury-choked voice: "Tell me the circumstances, and let me see if anything can be done." "Nothing can be done. It's irrevocable." "But it isn't legal. You haven't a penny. You're under age." "We can wait." "Just what you couldn't do, apparently. You--you--" After he had worked off his fit of incoherency, he resumed: "Well, you've succeeded in wrecking your life pretty thoroughly. And only nineteen! How old is the girl?" "Twenty-one." "I see," muttered the old man. "Well, I suppose now that it's 'irrevocable,' as you say, you'd better take me into your confidence." "I don't see that you've left me much choice." "Where is she living now?" "In Cambridge," said Ethan, with some surprise. "With her father still?" "Yes." "You saw her there?" "Yes." "When?" Ethan grew scarlet, and then, frowning doggedly: "I saw her first in her garden one morning as I was going to Hall." "Well?" "I've answered your question." "No, you haven't. I must know the facts of the case before I can-- You made acquaintance with her that first day?" "I didn't _speak_ to her." The old man stared with mystified little eyes at his grandson's flushed face. "She was there every day when you passed by?" "Yes." "H'm! Of course she would be there. When did you speak to her?" "Not for three weeks." He half turned away. "Good Lord! Barely a fortnight ago!" Ethan didn't deny it. "How did you come to know her?" The young face grew dark. He was writhing under the catechism. "Charlie Hammond showed her a poem I had written for the _Harvard Oracle_. She sent me a message about it." "Well?" "Then I went to call with Hammond." "Well?" "Then--then I met her in the Beech Walk." "Ah! The Beech Walk." "Yes; twice." "And then?" "That's all." "Don't tell me lies, sir!" Ethan stood before him cold and rigid on a sudden. No flush now on the clear-cut features. "You've no right to speak to me as you're doing, not if you were fifty grandfathers." "Where did these other meetings take place, sir? Did old Marlowe countenance them?" "There were no other meetings." Ethan turned away.