Henry Houghton, too, saw the aging heaviness of the young face when, having received the report of that interview with Lily, he came down to Mercer to go over the whole affair and see what must be done.  But there was nothing to be done.  Up in his room in the hotel he and Maurice thrashed it all out: 

“She prefers to stay in Mercer,” Maurice explained; “and she’ll stay.  There’s nothing I can do; absolutely nothing!  But she’ll play fair.  I’m not afraid of Lily.”

If Mr. Houghton wished, uneasily, that his ward was afraid of Lily, he did not say so.  He only told Maurice again that he was “betting on him.”

“You won’t lose,” Maurice said, laconically.

“Perhaps,” Henry Houghton said, doubtfully, “I ought to say that Mrs. Houghton—­who is the wisest woman I know, as well as the best—­has an idea that in matters of this sort, frankness is the best course.  But in your case (of which, of course, she knows nothing) I don’t agree with her.”

“It would be impossible,” Maurice said, briefly.  And his guardian, whose belief in secrecy had been shaken, momentarily, by his Mary’s opinion, felt that, so long as he had quoted her, his conscience was clear.  So he only told the boy again he was sure he could bet on him!  And because shame, and those bleak words “my own fault,” kept the spiritual part of Maurice alive,—­(and because Lily was a white blackbird!) the bet stood.

But he made no promises about the future.  However much of a liar Maurice was going to be, to Eleanor, he would not, he told himself, lie to this old friend by saying he would never see Lily again.  The truth was, some inarticulate moral instinct made him know that there would come a time when he would have to see her...  During all that winter, when he sat, night after night, at Miss Ladd’s dinner table, and Eleanor fended off Miss Moore and the widow, or when, in those long evenings in their own room they played solitaire, he was thinking of Lily, thinking of that inner summons to what he called “decency,” which would, he knew, drive him—­in three months—­in two months—­in one month!—­to Lily’s door.  By and by it was three weeks—­two weeks—­one week!  Then came days when he said, in terror, “I’ll go to-morrow.”  And again:  “To-morrow, I must go.  Damn it!  I must!” So at last, he went, lashed and driven by that mastering “decency”!

He had bought a box of roses, and, looping two fingers through its strings, he walked twice around the block past the ugly apartment house before he could make up his mind to enter.  He wondered whether Lily had died?  Women do die, sometimes.  “Of course I don’t want anything to happen to her; but—­” Then he wondered, with a sudden pang of hope, if anything had happened to—­It?  “They’re born dead, sometimes!” Nothing wrong in wishing that, for the Thing would be better off dead than alive.  He wished he was dead himself! ...  The third time he came to the