Cayley was perfectly cool. "We will talk simply. As I said, you had
marriage without love. The woman loved another man. That other man
loved the woman--that good woman. In youthful days at college he had
married, neither wisely nor well, a beggar-maid without those virtues
usually credited to beggar-maidens who marry gentlemen. Well, Houghton,
the beggar-maid was supposed to have died. She hadn't died; she had
shammed. Meanwhile, between her death and her resurrection, the man came
to love that good woman. And so, lines got crossed; things went wrong.
Houghton, I loved Alice before she was your wife. I should have married
her but for the beggar-maid."

"You left her without telling her why."

"I told her that things must end, and I went away."

"Like a coward," rejoined Houghton. "You should have told her all."

"What difference has it made?" asked Cayley gloomily.

"My happiness and hers. If you had told her all, there had been an end
of mystery. Mystery is dear to a woman's heart. She was not different
in that respect from others. You took the surest way to be remembered."

Cayley's fingers played with his horse's mane; his eyes ran over the
ground debatingly; then he lifted them suddenly, and said: "Houghton, you
are remarkably frank with me; what do you mean by it?"

"I'll tell you if you will answer me this question: Why have you come
here?"