She did not reply; she was reflecting.

"You are not thinking of marrying Tetlow--are you?"

"No," she said. "I don't love him--and couldn't learn to."

With a sincerely judicial air, now that he felt secure, he said: "Why
not? It would be a good match."

"I don't love him," she repeated, as if that were a sufficient and
complete answer. And he was astonished to find that he so regarded it,
also, in spite of every assault of all that his training had taught him
to regard as common sense about human nature.

"You can simply say to Tetlow that you've decided to stay at home and
take care of your father. The offices of the company will be at your
house. Your official duties practically amount to taking care of your
father. So you'll be speaking the truth."

"Oh, it isn't exactly lying, to keep something from somebody who has no
right to know it. What you suggest isn't quite the truth. But it's near
enough, and I'll say it to him."

His own view of lying was the same as that she had expressed. Also, he
had no squeamishness about saying what was in no sense true, if the
falsehood were necessary to his purposes. Yet her statement of her code,
moral though he thought it and eminently sensible as well, lowered her
once more in his estimation. He was eager to find reason or plausible
excuse for believing her morally other and less than she seemed to be.