"Good-morning," he said, lightly, looking down at his plate. "No letters?"
"Yes, sir." Mr. Tallmadge turned his ashen countenance round. "There _is_ a letter."
Mr. Tallmadge warded him off with a shaking hand.
Ethan drew himself up arrow-straight, and his warm brown eyes grew cold.
"I knew there was some devilry afoot. I never dreamed it was as bad as this."
The old man flung the open letter down on the nearest chair.
Ethan colored, catching sight of the hand.
"Yes; I only wish to the Lord I had exercised that right before. I might have saved you from this ruin!"
"You couldn't have saved me, sir, if that's any satisfaction."
"It's no use to think what might have been--" The old man sat down, almost fell into the chair by the window where he had thrown the letter. "Was she a decent woman?"
"Was she a--" Ethan repeated, bewildered.
"Who is she?" thundered old Tallmadge, with renewed rage.
"Daughter of the new Professor of Physics."
"Ha! _might_ be worse, I suppose. But--Marlowe? Marlowe? He's the new man, isn't he?"
"Marlowe? Why, it isn't a month since he was installed."
Mr. Tallmadge's lean face worked, speechless; then, finding a fury-choked voice:
"Tell me the circumstances, and let me see if anything can be done."
"But it isn't legal. You haven't a penny. You're under age."
"Just what you couldn't do, apparently. You--you--"
After he had worked off his fit of incoherency, he resumed:
"Well, you've succeeded in wrecking your life pretty thoroughly. And only nineteen! How old is the girl?"
"I see," muttered the old man. "Well, I suppose now that it's 'irrevocable,' as you say, you'd better take me into your confidence."
"I don't see that you've left me much choice."
"In Cambridge," said Ethan, with some surprise.
Ethan grew scarlet, and then, frowning doggedly:
"I saw her first in her garden one morning as I was going to Hall."
"No, you haven't. I must know the facts of the case before I can-- You made acquaintance with her that first day?"
The old man stared with mystified little eyes at his grandson's flushed face.
"She was there every day when you passed by?"
"H'm! Of course she would be there. When did you speak to her?"
The young face grew dark. He was writhing under the catechism.
"Charlie Hammond showed her a poem I had written for the _Harvard Oracle_. She sent me a message about it."