short? And more important still from my standpoint, was it expedient?
These were difficult questions. There was that in Charlotte's bearing which distinctly discouraged any idea of arraignment. There had been small but unmistakable signs. The lift of an eye-brow, the turn of a shoulder, which gave indefinable but sufficient evidence that Charlotte's feelings were not to be trifled with. After all (said the poltroon within me), was it necessary? She might be only a little out of sorts; would it not be better to wait? So I argued and temporized with the enemy, trying to shut my eyes to disorder without, and my ears to the voice of conscience within.
Things went on thus for a week or two longer, then quite suddenly one morning the worm in me turned of its own accord. That instinctive sense of right and justice at the heart of every one of us, rose and prevailed against the specious arguments of my own cowardice.
It was nearly ten o'clock of a fresh Monday morning (all Monday mornings are fresh, or should be) and Charlotte's presence was still audible in the breakfast room, lingering over the dishes. Breakfast had been slackly
