“Do you mean to say she will not marry you if you ask her?” began Lily incredulously.

“Absolutely.”

“Why?”

“For your sakes—­yours, and mother’s, and father’s—­and for mine.”

There was a long silence, then Lily said unsteadily: 

“There—­there seems to be a certain—­nobility—­about her....  It is a pity—­a tragedy—­that she is what she is!”

“It is a tragedy that the world is what it is,” he said.  “Good night.”

* * * * *

His father sent for him in the morning; Louis found him reading the Tribune in his room and sipping a bowl of hot milk and toast.

[Illustration:  “‘What have you been saying to your mother?’ he asked.”]

“What have you been saying to your mother?” he asked, looking up through his gold-rimmed spectacles and munching toast.

“Has she not told you, father?”

“Yes, she has....  I think you had better make a trip around the world.”

“That would not alter matters.”

“I differ with you,” observed his father, leisurely employing his napkin.

“There is no use considering it,” said his son patiently.

“Then what do you propose to do?”

“There is nothing to do.”

“By that somewhat indefinite expression I suppose that you intend to pursue a waiting policy?”

“A waiting policy?” His son laughed, mirthlessly.  “What am I to wait for?  If you all were kind to Valerie West she might, perhaps, consent to marry me.  But it seems that even our own family circle has not sufficient authority to protect her from our friends’ neglect and humiliation....

“She warned me that it would be so, long ago.  I did not believe it; I could not comprehend it.  But, somehow, Lily has made me believe it.  And so have you.  I guess it must be true.  And if that’s all I have to offer my wife, it’s not enough to compensate her for her loss of freedom and happiness and self-respect among those who really care for her.”

“Do you give me to understand that you renounce all intentions of marrying this girl?” asked his father, breaking more toast into his bowl of milk.

“Yes,” said his son, listlessly.

“Thank God!” said his father; “come here, my son.”

They shook hands; the son’s lifeless arm fell to his side and he stood looking at the floor in silence.  The father took a spoonful of hot milk with satisfaction, and, after the younger man had left the room, he resumed his newspaper.  He was particularly interested in the “Sunshine Column,” which dispensed sweetness and light under a poetic caption too beautiful to be true in a coldly humorous world.

* * * * *

That afternoon Gordon Collis said abruptly to Neville: 

“You look like the devil, Louis.”

“Do I?”

“You certainly do.”  And, in a lower voice:  “I guess I’ve heard what’s the matter.  Don’t worry.  It’s a thing about which nobody ever ought to give anybody any advice—­so I’ll give you some.  Marry whoever you damn please.  It’ll be all the same after that oak I planted this morning is half grown.”