“Well, now, it’s we who’ve got to have the courage.  Or you have.  Do you know what Ellen wants to have done?” Mrs. Kenton put it in these impersonal terms, and as a preliminary to shirking her share of the burden.

“She doesn’t want to have him refused?”

“She wants to have him told all about Bittridge.”

After a momentary revolt the judge said, “Well, that’s right.  It’s like Ellen.”

“There’s something else that’s more like her,” said Mrs. Kenton, indignantly.  “She wants him to told about what Bittridge did that night —­about him kissing her.”

The judge looked disgusted with his wife for the word; then he looked aghast.  “About—­”

“Yes, and she won’t have a word to say to him till he is told, and unless he is told she will refuse him.”

“Did she say that?”

“No, but I know she will.”

“If she didn’t say she would, I think we may take the chances that she won’t.”

“No, we mustn’t take any such chances.  You must tell him.”

“I?  No, I couldn’t manage it.  I have no tact, and it would sound so confoundedly queer, coming from one man to another.  It would be —­indelicate.  It’s something that nobody but a woman—­Why doesn’t she tell him herself?”

“She won’t.  She considers it our part, and something we ought to do before he commits himself.”

“Very well, then, Sarah, you must tell him.  You can manage it so it won’t by so—­queer.

“That is just what I supposed you would say, Mr. Kenton, but I must say I didn’t expect it of you.  I think it’s cowardly.”

“Look out, Sarah!  I don’t like that word.”

“Oh, I suppose you’re brave enough when it comes to any kind of danger.  But when it comes to taking the brunt of anything unpleasant—­”

“It isn’t unpleasant—­it’s queer.”

“Why do you keep saying that over and over?  There’s nothing queer about it.  It’s Ellenish but isn’t it right?”

“It’s right, yes, I suppose.  But it’s squeamish.”

“I see nothing squeamish about it.  But I know you’re determined to leave it to me, and so I shall do it.  I don’t believe Mr. Breckon will think it’s queer or squeamish.”

“I’ve no doubt he’ll take it in the right way; you’ll know how to—­” Kenton looked into his hat, which he had taken off and then put it on again.  His tone and his manner were sufficiently sneaking, and he could not make them otherwise.  It was for this reason, no doubt, that he would not prolong the interview.

“Oh yes, go!” said Mrs. Kenton, as he found himself with his hand on the door.  “Leave it all to me, do!” and he was aware of skulking out of the room.  By the time that it would have taken him so long as to walk to the top of the grand stairway he was back again.  “He’s coming!” he said, breathlessly.  “I saw him at the bottom of the stairs.  Go into your room and wash your eyes.  I’ll tell him.”