He wondered how he could put it; then at last, on his own side, simplified. "My attitude."
"Is that all?"—she was relieved again. "Well, you're not a statue."
"No, I'm not a statue; but on the other hand, don't you see? I'm not a windmill." There was good-humour, none the less, in his rigour. "The mortgages I speak of have all found their way, like gregarious silly sheep, into the hands of one person—a devouring wolf, a very rich, a very sharp man of money. He holds me in this manner at his mercy. He consents to make things comfortable for me, but he requires that, in return, I shall do something for him that—don't you know?—rather sticks in my crop."
It appeared on this light showing to stick for a moment even in Mrs. Gracedew's. "Do you mean something wrong?"
He had not a moment's hesitation. "Exceedingly so!"
She turned it over as if pricing a Greek Aldus. "Anything immoral?"
"Yes—I may literally call it immoral."
She courted, however, frankly enough, the strict truth. "Too bad to tell?"
He indulged in another pensive fidget, then
