permitted himself to be drawn into that side
of his friend's life in which he should have known he had no part. The
friendship need be in no way affected: simply restore the old relations,
use greater discretion in keeping them within the bounds which Nature
had prescribed for them, and all would be as before.

Huntington abhorred an enigma because when once focused in his mind a
mental impossibility was created to rid himself of it. He found it
lurking behind his _Transcript_ in the evening, it tried to crystallize
itself in the smoke of his last pipe before retiring, it flirted with
him coyly over his coffee-cup the next morning. Until the figment became
a reality and was dismissed it was a haunting menace to his peace of
mind. Now that he had discovered an explanation of his disapproval of
Connie and had found the antidote, that particular enigma was disposed
of, and he should have been free to resume his normal state; but to his
further discomfiture this was just what he found he could not do. He had
cut off one of the Hydra's heads, but others remained which spat at him
viciously.

Why was it that Cosden's attitude caused him such peculiar annoyance at
this particular time? Had he been entirely straightforward with his
friend, had he been quite frank in answering Hamlen's question regarding
Merry's resemblance to her mother? Huntington's disgust with himself at
that first slip became intensified by its repetition. He recalled De
Quincey's arraignment of the murderer on the ground that murder so
dulls the sensibilities that it is an easy step from this to falsehood.
Huntington, with his Puritan ancestry, would have allowed himself to be
torn by wild horses before he would deliberately tell an untruth, yet
here, on two separate occasions, he had undeniably juggled with the
facts.

When Cosden suggested that there might be some deeper reason for his
objections he promptly and equivocably denied the implication that he
had any interest in Merry beyond that of an older friend; yet he now
knew that the denial was absolutely false. What he told Cosden was what
ought to be the case rather than what the case really was. This was his
secret, and he had protected it in the easiest way, which as usual was a
cowardly subterfuge. The fact that he had made a misstatement or that he
had a secret to conceal had come to him only during this period of
self-communion since the little sloop sailed away, leaving him alone
with his r