How funny you not knowing, though. It was in all the papers--'Heroic conduct of a lady.' Aren't they silly, those people that write papers.

I wasn't heroic a bit."

"I--I never saw it. I was in Paris."

"In Paris? Ah, I love Paris! That's where I went for my honeymoon. Was that where you were ill?"

"Yes."

"Poor Louis! And I was so happy there."

Poor Louis!--she had loved Nevill in him and he was still a part of Nevill. And for the rest, she who understood so much, who was she to judge him?

He looked at her. By this time his sensations had lost the sting of pity and horror. He could look without flinching. The fire had only burnt the lower frame-work of the face, leaving the features untouched; the eyes still glowed under their scorched brows with a look half-tender, half-triumphant.

It was as if they said, "See what it was you loved so much."

The little fool, tortured into wisdom, was that what she meant? It was always hard to fathom her meanings. Could it be that?

Yes, it must be. She had sent for him, not because she wanted to see him, but because she wanted him to see her. She had sent for him to save him. The sight of her face had killed her husband's love; she had supposed that it would do the same kind office for his. Would any other woman have thought of it? It was preposterous, of course; but it would not have been Mrs. Nevill Tyson's idea without some touch of divine absurdity.

But--could any other woman have done it? "See what it was you loved so much." Poor little fool!

And he saw. This was not Mrs. Nevill Tyson, but it was the woman that he had loved. Her being Mrs. Nevill Tyson was an accident; it had nothing to do with _her_. Her beauty too? It was gone. So was something that had obscured his judgment of her. He had doubted her over and over again, unwillingly at first, willfully at the end; but he knew now that if for one instant she had justified his skepticism he would have ceased to love her. It was the paradox of her purity, dimly discerned under all his doubt, that had tormented and fascinated him; and she held him by it still.

His fingers worked nervously, plaiting and unplaiting the fringe.

"You were burnt. Where was Nevill then?"

"He was here."

"Was _he_ burnt?"

"No; but he might have been. He--he helped to put the fire out. Oh, Louis, it's horribly hard on him!"

Stanistreet clenched his teeth lest he should blaspheme.

"How long have you known Nevill?" she asked, as if she had read his thoughts.

"I don't know. A long time--"

"How many years? Think."

"Fifteen perhaps. We were at Marlborough together in seventy-eight."

"You've known him twenty years then. And you have known me--three?"

"Four, Molly--four next September."

"Well, four then. It isn't a long time. And you see it wasn't enough, to know me in, was it?"

He said nothing; but the fringe dropped from his fingers.

"You were Nevill's best friend too, weren't you?"

"Yes. His best friend, and his worst, G.o.d help me!"

"I suppose that means you've quarreled with him? I thought I heard you.

But, of course, you didn't know."

"Forgive me, I did not." He had misunderstood her--again!

"Well, you know now. I wasn't worth quarreling about, was I?"

He got up and leaned out of the window, looking into the dull street that roared seventy feet below. Then he sighed; and whether it was a sigh of relief or pain he could not tell.

Neither did Mrs. Nevill Tyson in her great wisdom know.

CHAPTER XIX

CONFESSIONAL

After all, Tyson was the first to make up the quarrel. If a sense of justice was wanting in him it was supplied by a sense of humor, and he was very soon conscious of something ridiculous in his att.i.tude towards Stanistreet. He had law and nature on his side for once, but in the eyes of the humorist, or of impartial justice, there was not very much to choose between them. In fact the advantage was on Stanistreet's side. He, Tyson, had thrown his wife and Stanistreet together from the first, he had exposed her to what, in his view, would have been sharp temptation to nine women out of ten, and she had not wronged him by a single thought.

As for Stanistreet, he had not taken, or even attempted to take, the chance he gave him.

His tolerance showed how far he had separated himself from her. A month ago he would not have thought so lightly of the matter.

One evening, not long after their stormy interview, he turned up at Stanistreet's rooms in Chelsea, much as he had turned up at Ridgmount Gardens after his year's absence.

Stanistreet was lying back in a low chair, smoking and thinking. The change in Louis's appearance was still more striking than when they had last met. His clothes hung loosely, on him; his whole figure had a drooping, disjointed look. But the restless light had gone from his eyes; the muscles of his lean face were set in a curious repose, as if the man's nature were appeased, as if his will had somehow resisted the physical collapse. He rose reluctantly as Tyson came in, and stood, manifestly ill at ease, while Tyson, ignoring the interrogation of his air, took possession of a seat which was not offered to him.

"Look here, Stanistreet," said he, "I can't stand this any longer. You and I can't afford to quarrel--about a woman. It's not worth it."

"That is precisely what your wife said. But it's not the way I should put it myself. We did quarrel; and you at least had every provocation."

"Oh, d.a.m.n the provocation. You don't suppose I came here to make you apologize?"

"I'm not going to apologize. When I say you had provocation enough to justify your putting a bullet into me, I'm merely stating the conventional view."

"Well--yes. If I hit you hard, it was all above the belt."

"There are some vulnerable parts above the belt, though you mightn't think it."

"If it comes to that, Stanny, I must say you got your revenge. Trust an old friend for knowing where to hit. That fist of yours caught me in some very nasty places. Suppose we shake hands."

They shook hands. Stanistreet's hand was cold as ice. He lowered himself into his chair, and lit a pipe in token of reconciliation.