"What was it?" Alice probed, now well started on the terrible domestic Third Degree.
"I don't want to tell."
"Did you buy it?"
"Yes."
"Tell Mother." Silence. "Tell Mother what it was." Alice's voice was gentle. She put a poisonously kind hand on Robert's shoulder. She was undermining his fortitude with affection.
"It was—it was," he said, very low, "a swear!"
"You bought a swear?"
In spite of his embarrassment and reluctance triumph flamed in Robert's face. "Yes," he said, "I bought the worst swear that Ted Jennings knows! I paid five cents!"
Alice waited. Pride in his new accomplishment struggled with his instinct for secrecy. His mother's eyes rested upon his, kind and encouraging: it was too much, the pressure upon him was more than a young soul could resist.
"This is the swear," he volunteered: "Golly! Gosh! Darn!" He hesitated just a moment, "Damn! Devil!" The wickedness of it rejoiced him. "But you see," he cried, suddenly becoming the austere brother, "Sara mustn't know it; girls can't say things like that. Sara mustn't never, never hear things like that!" Right before her eyes, full blown, Alice saw the dual standard of morality. "She might say it, she hasn't any sense."
"Take care you don't say it," Alice admonished. "And I think selling it was disgusting. Never sell a thing like that, Robert, and don't say it."
"Oh, no, ma'am!"
"Well, then," said Alice, "what use was it to you to buy something that you can't use?" She was carefully avoiding emphasizing any glory by being shocked.
