Miss Weyland would rather think that he had written the editorial than
to know that West had written it.
The thought, when he finally reached it, leapt up at him, but he pushed
it away. However, it returned. It became like one of those swinging logs
which hunters hang in trees to catch bears: the harder he pushed it
away, the harder it swung back at him.
He fully understood the persistence of this idea. It was the heart and
soul of the whole question. He himself was simply Miss Weyland's friend,
the least among many. If belief in his dishonesty had brought her
pain--and he had her word for that--it was a hurt that would quickly
pass. False friends are soon forgotten. But to West belonged the shining
pedestal in the innermost temple of her heart. It would go hard with the
little lady to find at the last moment this stain upon her lover's
honor.
He had only to sit still and say nothing to make her happy. That was
plain. So the whole issue was shifted. It was not, as it had first
seemed, merely a matter between West and himself. The real issue was
between Miss Weyland and himself--between her happiness and his .
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