There always is something more, which isn't told, he reflected, and the worst of it is, the something more which isn't told is always the real reason.

Men go to the confessional with a reservation; the secret chamber where they keep their sacred vessels, their real truths and inspirations, as also their most scarlet sins--that shall be opened to no one after early youth is past unless it be--rarely--to one woman.

There was another reason at work in Harry Luttrell, but Sir Charles Hardiman was never to know it.

With a shrug of his shoulders he took a pencil from his pocket, filled up one of the forms and handed it to Luttrell.
"That's what I should reply." He had written: "_I am travelling to London to-morrow to apply for transfer._--LUTTRELL." Luttrell read the telegram with surprise.

It was not the answer which he had expected from the victim of the flesh-pots in front of him.
"You advise that ?" he exclaimed.
"Yes.