all, Caudle; I dare say it's a very good thing; I dare say it is--
it's only your making a secret of it that vexes me. But you'll tell
me--you'll tell your own Margaret? You won't! You're a wretch, Mr.
Caudle.

"But I know why: oh, yes, I can tell. The fact is, you're ashamed
to let me know what a fool they've been making of you. That's it.
You, at your time of life--the father of a family! I should be
ashamed of myself, Caudle.

"And I suppose you'll be going to what you call your Lodge every
night, now. Lodge, indeed! Pretty place it must be, where they
don't admit women. Nice goings on, I dare say. Then you call one
another brethren. Brethren! I'm sure you'd relations enough, you
didn't want any more.

"But I know what all this masonry's about. It's only an excuse to
get away from your wives and families, that you may feast and drink
together, that's all. That's the secret. And to abuse women,--as if
they were inferior animals, and not to be trusted. That's the
secret; and nothing else.

"Now, Caudle, don't let us quarrel. Yes, I know you're in pain.
Still, Caudle, my love; Caudle! Dearest, I say! Caudle!"


"I recollect nothing more," says Caudle, "for I had eaten a hearty
supper, and somehow became oblivious."