“As Marcia suggested,” I replied, “they’re sure that matters are in good hands.”

“Yes, she’s so sane.  That’s it.  You know when we got to town I took dinner with the family down in Washington Square.  Jolly lot of girls, like stair-steps, from eight to eighteen, but not a bit like Una, Roger, and the mother, placid, serene, intelligent with a dignity that seems to go with the house and neighborhood—­a dear old lady, not so terribly old, either, and astonishingly well informed—­Fine old house, refreshing, cool, mellow with age and decent associations; none of your Louis Quinze business there.  I always wondered where Una got her poise.  Now I know.”

“Had you never called there before?” I asked when he paused to light his pipe.

“No, I always went to her office in the Mission and had her in a different setting, a bare room, desk, filing-cases, placards on the wall, scrupulously neat and business-like, but uncompromising, Roger, and severe.  The house makes a better frame for her somehow—­”

I knew what he meant, for I had seen her in it, but of course was silent.

“She’s doing a tremendous work down town.  She is the Mission.  The superintendent and nurses idolize her.  I was questioning her mother about it.  Una has a way with her.  The women that come there have to be handled carefully, it seems.  I’m afraid they’re a bad lot, though Una won’t talk about ’em.  She says I wouldn’t understand.  I suppose I wouldn’t.  I’ve never learned much about women yet, Roger.  Funny, too.  They seem so easy to understand, and yet they’re not.  It’s the men that bring the women down—­ruin them, but I can’t see why it couldn’t just as well be the other way about.  Men are weak, too; why are the men always blamed?  That’s what I want to know, and what does it all mean?  I suppose I’m awfully ignorant.  Things go in one ear and out the other without making any impression.  I lack something.  It’s the way I’m made.  I’ve missed something, of the meaning of life, I suppose, because I’ve lived it all with so few people, you, Una, Uncle Jack—­Flynn and the boys—­”

“And Marcia,” I put in suggestively.

He ignored my remark.

“Most chaps I’ve met seem to take so much of my knowledge for granted.  The boys at Flynn’s puzzled me, their strange phrases, hinting at hidden vices, but I wasn’t going to question them.  It’s up to you, Roger.  I want to know.  What is this threat to Una’s reputation when Marcia tells of our meeting here alone?”

As I remained resolutely silent, Jerry got up and paced with long strides up and down before me.