The walls of the room swayed as though they were of fabric.  The floor undulated; his chair rocked dizzily.  Out of the accusing silence, Thorpe’s words leaped to mock him: 

The honour of the spoken word still holds him.  He asked her to marry him and she consented . . . he was never released from his promise . . . did not even ask for it.  He slunk away like a cur . . . sometimes I think there is no sin but shirking. . .  I can excuse a liar . . .  I can pardon a thief . . .  I can pity a murderer . . . but a shirk, no.

“Father,” Ralph was saying, “you do not seem to understand.  I suppose it is difficult for you to comprehend such cowardice—­you have always done the square thing.”  The man winced, but the boy did not see it.

“Try to think of a brute like that, Father, and be glad that our name means ‘right.’  She saved him from terrible disfigurement if not from death.  Having instinctively thrown up her right arm, she got the worst of it there, and on her shoulder.  Her face was badly burned, but not so deeply as to be scarred.  She showed me her shoulder—­it is awful.  I never had seen anything like it.  She said her arm was worse, but she did not show me that.”

“He never knew?” asked Anthony Dexter, huskily.  Ralph seemed to be demanding something of him, and the veiled figure, steadily advancing and retreating, demanded more still.

“No,” answered Ralph, “he never knew.  He went to the hospital only once.  He had told her that very day that he loved her for the beautiful soul she had, and at the test, his love failed.  He never saw her again.  He went away, and married, and he has a son.  Think of the son, Father, only think of the son!  Suppose he knew it!  How could he ever bear a disgrace like that!”

“I do not know,” muttered Anthony Dexter.  His lips were cold and stiff and he did not recognise his own voice.

“When she understood what had happened,” Ralph continued, “and how he had deserted her for ever, after taking his cowardly life from her as a gift, her hair turned white.  She has wonderful hair.  Father—­it’s heavy and white and dull—­it does not shine.  She wore the veil at first because she had to, because her face was healing, and before it had wholly healed she had become accustomed to the shelter of it.  Then, too, as she said, it kept people away from her—­she could not be tempted to love or trust again.”

There was an interval of silence, though the very walls seemed to be crying out:  “Tell him!  Tell him!  Confess, and purge your guilty soul!” The clock ticked loudly, the blood roared in his ears.  His hands were cold and almost lifeless; his body seemed paralysed, but he heard, so acutely that it was agony.

“Miss Evelina said,” resumed Ralph, “that she did not think he had told his son.  Do you know what I was thinking, Father, while she was talking?  I was thinking of you, and how you had always done the square thing.”