There recurred to John’s mind, a moment during that day’s drive he had taken with Mary, down South, when he had leaped to the wild surmise that there might be something between those two.  She’d been talking about the piano tuner with what struck him as a surprisingly confident understanding.

She had instantly, he remembered, divined his thought and as swiftly set it at rest.  March wasn’t, she had said, a person who saved himself up for special people.  He was there for anybody, like a public drinking fountain.

But had she been ingenuous in making that reply to him?  Had he really been in her confidence about the man?  Obviously not.  The only encounter between them that he had ever heard about was the one she had upon that day described to him.  And Lucile and Rush were evidently as completely in the dark about the affair as he himself had been.  Their meetings, their numerous meetings, must have been clandestine.  That Mary, his own white little daughter, should be capable of an affair like that!

Another memory flashed into his mind.  The evening of that same day when she had tried to tell him why she couldn’t marry Graham.  She wasn’t, she had said, innocent enough for Graham; she wasn’t even quite—­good.

The horror of the conclusion he seemed to be drifting upon literally, for a moment, nauseated John Wollaston.  The sweat felt cold upon his forehead.  And then, white hot, bracing him like brandy, a wave of anger.

Some preliminary move toward speaking evidently caught March’s ear, for he turned alertly and looked.  It was one of the oddest experiences John Wollaston had ever had.  The moment he met March’s gaze, the whole infernal pattern, like an old-fashioned set-piece in fireworks, extinguished itself as suddenly as it had flared.  There was something indescribable in this man’s face that simply made grotesque the notion that he could be a blackguard.  John felt himself clutching at his anger to keep him up but the momentary belief which had fed it was gone.

March’s face darkened, too.  “If you have any idea,” he said, “that I’ve taken any advantage—­or attempted to take any...”

“No,” John said quickly.  “I don’t believe anything like that.  I confess there was a moment just now when it looked like that; when I couldn’t make it look like anything else.  It is still quite unaccountable to me.  That explanation is discarded—­but I’d like the real one.”

“I don’t believe,” March said, reflecting over it for a moment, “that there is any explanation I could give that would make it much more accountable.  We love each other.  That is a fact that, accountable or not, we both had to recognize a number of weeks ago.  I didn’t ask her to marry me until last night.  I wouldn’t have asked her then if it hadn’t become clear to me that her happiness depended upon it as much as mine did.  When she was able to see that the converse was also true, we—­agreed upon it.”