On the other hand, he poured out his affairs and his plans to her with a freedom of confidence unknown before, a confidence which seemed to presuppose her oneness of interest with him. He had talked exhaustively about everything but those few days’ absence; that was a sore that she must not touch, a wound that could bear no probing. She had striven very hard not to show when she didn’t understand, taking her cues for assent or dissent as he evidently wished her to, letting him think aloud, as it seemed to be a relief to him, and saying little herself. The only time when she broke in on her own account was when he had told her about Cater, and the defective bars, and Leverich’s ultimatum. Here was an issue that she could comprehend; here her woman’s instinct rang true. A man may juggle with that fluctuating line where sharp practice and honest shrewdness meet, so that he fails to see where one begins and another ends; but a woman of Lois’ caliber _knows_. Her “Justin, you wouldn’t do that; you wouldn’t tell!” met with his quick response: “No, I couldn’t.” “Oh, I know that, I know that! I’m glad, whatever comes, that you couldn’t do it. I’d rather be a hundred times poorer than we are! Aren’t you glad that you couldn’t do it?” “No; I think I’m rather sorry,” said Justin, with a half-smile. The peculiar sharpness of the thought that it was between Cater and Leverich—his friends, Heaven save the mark! that he was being pushed toward ruin, had not lost any of its edge. There had been a tonic in a certain attitude of Cater’s mind toward Justin—an unspoken kindliness and admiration and tenderness such as an older man who has been along a hard road may feel toward another who has come along the same way. Cater’s kind, unobtrusive comradeship, the fair-dealing friendliness of his rivalry, had seemed to be one of the factors of support, of honesty, of commercial righteousness. Justin was surprised to find out how much the morning greeting with Cater, or the occasional lunch-hour together, had meant to him. Cater and he had mutually understood a great many things. Cater had done nothing wrong now, except to pull the foothold from under his friend’s feet. It was not men who were known to be bad who hurt you when they were dishonest; it was the _good_ men who slid over that dividing-line, with apparent unconsciousness that they were on that other, shaming side. To break an unwritten bond is perhaps worse than to break one printed and scheduled, because it presupposes a greater faith and trust. Justin could smile proudly at Leverich, but he couldn’t smile when he thought of Cater—it weighed upon and humiliated him for the man who had been his friend. “I am glad that you couldn’t do it anyway!” said Lois. “It wouldn’t have been you if you had! Can’t you take a rest now, dear, when _you_ look so ill? No, no; I didn’t mean that—of course you can’t!”