For two summers Ben had made no protest, but the third summer, when the war was over and the allowance again possible, he urged David not to go back to Newport.  David flatly refused to yield.  He said he saw no reason why he should go on taking Ben’s money when this simple way of earning a full living was open to him.  Wasn’t Ben’s whole theory that everyone should be self-supporting?  Why not be consistent?

Ignorant people might imagine that two affectionate brothers could not quarrel over an issue purely affectionate.  But the Moretons did quarrel—­more bitterly than ever before, and that is saying a great deal.  With the extraordinary tenacity of memory that develops under strong emotion, they each contrived to recall and to mention everything which the other had done that was wrong, ridiculous, or humiliating since their earliest days.  They parted with the impression on David’s part that Ben thought him a self-indulgent grafter, and on Ben’s side that David thought him a bully solely interested in imposing his will on those unfortunate enough to be dependent on him.

It was after half past four when, having walked up five flights of stairs, he let himself into his modest flat on the top floor of an old-fashioned brownstone house.  As he opened the door, he called,

“Nora!”

No beautiful partner of a free-love affair appeared, but an elderly woman in spectacles who had once been Professor Moreton’s cook, and now, doing all the housework for Ben, contrived to make him so comfortable that the editor of a more radical paper than his own had described the flat as “a bourgeois interior.”

“Nora,” said Ben, “put something in my bag for the night—­I’m going to Newport in a few minutes.”

He had expected a flood of questions, for Nora was no looker-on at life, and he was surprised by her merely observing that she was glad he was getting away from the heat.  The truth was that she knew far more about David than he did.  She had consistently coddled David since his infancy, and he told her a great deal.  Besides, she took care of his things when he was at Ben’s.  She had known of sachets, photographs, and an engraved locket that he wore on his watch-chain.  She was no radical.  She had seen disaster come upon the old professor and attributed it, not to the narrowness of the trustees, but to the folly of the professor.  She disapproved of most of Ben’s friends, and would have despised his paper if she ever read it.  The only good thing about it in her estimation was, he seemed to be able “to knock a living out of it”—­a process which Nora regarded with a sort of gay casualness.  She did not blame him for making so little money and thus keeping her housekeeping cramped, but she never in her own mind doubted that it would be far better if he had more.  The idea that David was about to marry money seemed to her simply the reward of virtue—­her own virtue in bringing David up so well.  She knew that Mr. Cord opposed the marriage, but she supposed that Ben would arrange all that.  She had great confidence in Ben.  Still he was very young, very young, so she gave him a word of advice as she put his bag into his hand.