Sylvester started, and his face grew suddenly pale. Did his father know? The old pain returned. He stood staring at the back of his father's chair. The match burned itself out between his fingers. His voice trembled as he spoke. “There are some sins that are unforgivable. We needn't discuss them.” It was Matthew's turn to start and look round at his son in anxious surmise. “You are of course speaking of the matter in the abstract?” he said. Sylvester struck another match, and spoke between the first few whiffs of his cigar. “Yes. In the abstract. There is the woman, for instance, who betrays her husband, whose life is a horrible lie. To say to a man 'forgive,' is vain breath. I know men who say they have forgiven. They are almost as contemptible as their wives.” “You would not forgive, Syl?” said Matthew, gravely. “By God, no!” said Sylvester. “You are right, my boy,” said Matthew. “We had better not pursue the subject. Abstract ethics are unprofitable matter for discussion.” He smiled in his kindly way and settled himself comfortably in his chair. But his heart was twenty-fold heavier than before. He closed his eyes. The memory came vividly of a woman throwing herself on her knees before him, in that very room, several years ago, and pouring out to him the agony of her soul. He had listened, questioned, bidden her go and sin no more. For Sylvester's sake he had counselled silence, secret atonement. It had been unutterable comfort to him that Sylvester's happiness had been untouched. And now, in spite of all, Sylvester knew. Else why should Sylvester have spoken thus of the faithless wife? The vague conjecture that had haunted him for nearly two years shaped itself into certainty. Many things that had been dark in Sylvester's recent life now became clear. But how he must have suffered! None knew better than he. For a while he forgot his own burden. Then suddenly the memory returned. But no longer had he the desire to share it with Sylvester. It was more imperative than ever to keep the secret undivulged. It was no new thing for him to struggle and endure. And the man of iron purpose and pathetic tenderness felt ashamed of his former impulse. “I'm afraid we've been talking a pack of nonsense, Syl,” he said lightly. “And we're both old enough to know better,” replied Sylvester, with a laugh. “How did we get on to the subject?” “I began to croak in an absurd way.” “And I'm afraid I helped you. I must come down here oftener. That dingy old house of mine is getting on my nerves.” “Oh, bosh!” said the old man, “you and I don't believe in nerves. We leave that to the feeble folk.” “Well, I haven't got many, I must confess,” said Sylvester, drawing up his well-knit figure. “And as a matter of fact, except your seediness, I haven't a care in the whole wide world.” “Neither have I,” returned Matthew, briskly. “And as for my health, I'm as fit as ever I was. Oh, I know I can't live for ever, but I'm good for another ten years at least.”