He grew pale and abstracted; the revealment was pouring like light and sun into the depths of his nature.  He wished that he was a better man; he thanked whatever god he reverenced that he was not a worse one.  He recalled the one foolish episode of his youth with contempt for his weakness and gratitude for the escape—­not only for himself but for the unknown girl.

As a proof of the sincerity of his present change of heart he wished above everything that he might find the girl and confess to her, for he felt, beyond doubt, that it would give her joy.

He believed this, not because he wanted to believe it, but because he felt the truth of it, and presently it gave him courage.

But there was Cameron!

Finally Raymond discovered that his business was suffering.  He grew indifferent to the exact hour of leaving his office; took no pride in his well-regulated habits.  He began to dislike Cameron and he dreamed of Nancy.  Day and night he saw her as the safe and sweet solution of all that was best in him.  She held sacred what his inheritance reverenced; she was human and divine; she was his salvation—­or Cameron’s.

At this point Mrs. Tweksbury gave him an unlooked-for stab.

“Well!” she remarked with a groan—­she never sighed, “I guess Clive Cameron has got in at the death!”

She looked gruesome and defeated.  Raymond grew hot and cold.

“What do you mean?” he asked, and glared shamelessly.

“I mean,” Mrs. Tweksbury confronted Raymond as if repudiating him forever, “I mean that you’ve let the chance of your life slip through your fingers and fall into the gaping mouth of that Clive Cameron.  It’s disgusting, nothing less!”

“Aunt Emily!  What in thunder do you mean?  Nancy Thornton has only been here a month; if she’s so easily gobbled”—­the discussion waxed crude—­“I’m sure I could not prevent it—­I’m not a gobbler.”

“No—­you’re a fool!”

“Come, come, Aunt Emily.”  Raymond flushed and Mrs. Tweksbury grew mahogany-tinted.

“Oh!  I know”—­two tears—­they were like solid balls—­rolled down the deep red cheeks.  Almost it seemed that they would make a noise when they landed on the expansive bosom.—­“I sound brutal, but I’m the female of the species and it hurts to know defeat the—­the second time.”

“The—­second—­time?” gasped Raymond.

“Yes—­your father!  I could—­oh!  Ken, it is no shame to say it to you—­but I could have made him happy, but it came, the chance, too late.  Then when you came I pledged my soul that I would try to secure your happiness.  I know what you want, need, and deserve, and here is this perfect child—­the one woman for you, snatched from under your nose by Clive Cameron who will—­” Emily Tweksbury sought for a figure of speech—­“who will, without doubt, end in dissecting her!”

“Good Lord!” gasped Raymond.  The dramatic choice of words was unnerving him.