"I didn't mean to--God knows I wouldn't hurt a hair of her head," he said, in a low voice. His hands relaxed, his shoulders drooped. "It seemed the best thing only this morning--is that what you meant this morning, Dorothy, when we--when we--when I went away?" he asked gently. She held out her hand to him, still clasping Caroline, and he knelt beside her, one arm around her neck. "I--I don't want you ever--to do--what you--think--is--is wrong," she said brokenly, but with a brave effort at steadiness. "I'll--I'll never--leave you--Frank." She gazed adoringly into his eyes, her hand tight in his. Luella's mouth twitched and she choked as she spoke. "Oh, Mr. Wortley," she urged, "it isn't that I don't see what you mean--partly. You think I don't, but I do. There's awful mistakes made in marryin', we all see 'em; even 'way back here in the country dreadful things happen, an' the papers--we c'n read 'em, that's enough an' more'n enough. There's things that ought to be changed, I know, but not the way you want to change 'em--oh, not that way! It can't help any, not marryin', don't you see--folks must just take pains and marry more careful, 'cause we've begun this way and now we can't stop without somebody gettin' hurt--and that won't be you, nor any other man. Marryin's all we've got to tie to, Mr. Wortley, us women, an' we can't quit now!" The boy looked thoughtfully at her: "I--I think perhaps you are right," he said slowly. He appeared unaccountably older; small, worried lines were cutting themselves deep around his eyes and mouth. He threw back his head in an attempt to regain the old, masterful manner. "I hope I am too sincere not to state honorably that I--I feel sure you are right!" he announced, "that is, in this particular instance. I have no desire to establish any point at the expense--at the expense...." He frowned into space; his lips tightened obstinately. "But it will _have_ to be at somebody's expense!" he cried irritably. "Shall we _always_ go on like this, putting off, putting off, letting this shameful, unsatisfactory state of things continue, just because it would be _our_ wives that would suffer...." "I guess that's about it," Luella answered, seriously. "Then all I have to say is, we're damned cowards, all of us!" he cried, with the old flash of rage. But it was the last time. Beaten, yet triumphant, he stooped for his harness and himself assumed it, with set teeth. "I--I shouldn't have said that," he said, gravely. "It's--it's a very difficult thing ... a man has so many responsibilities...." They waited patiently. "It seems one must compromise--something--anyway," he went on, thinking his way painfully along. "I don't know why it seems so difficult to me now; ... they talked enough, all the others, and of course I shall never speak to your Aunt Ethel again--you may use your own judgment, Dorothy--because there are some insults...." He shook himself again and drew the girl to her feet.