I was too exhausted to feel much; but I know those five awful minutes
seemed interminable. I could not have borne them, save for John's
voice in my ear.

"Courage! I'll bear all the blame. We have committed no absolute
sin, and have paid dearly for any folly. Courage!"

At the five minutes' end my father opened the door. He was dressed
as usual, looked as usual. Whether he had sat up watching, or had
suffered any anxiety, I never found out.

He said nothing; merely opened the door, admitted us, and closed it
behind us. But we were certain, from his face, that he knew all. It
was so; some neighbour driving home from Coltham had taken pains to
tell Abel Fletcher where he had seen his son--at the very last place
a Friend's son ought to be seen--the play-house. We knew that it was
by no means to learn the truth, but to confront us with it, that my
father--reaching the parlour, and opening the shutters that the hard
daylight should shame us more and more--asked the stern question--

"Phineas, where hast thee been?"

John answered for me. "At the theatre at Coltham. It was my fault.
He went because I wished to go."

"And wherefore didst thee wish to go?"

"Wherefore?" the answer seemed hard to find. "Oh! Mr Fletcher, were
you never young like me?"