es against the wall, and the noise had disturbed him.

"Who's there?" he called, quite the householder.

Margaret walked in and past him.

"I have asked Helen to sleep," she said. "She is best here; so don't
lock the front-door."

"I thought some one had got in," said Henry.

"At the same time I told the man that we could do nothing for him. I
don't know about later, but now the Basts must clearly go."

"Did you say that your sister is sleeping here, after all?"

"Probably."

"Is she to be shown up to your room?"

"I have naturally nothing to say to her; I am going to bed. Will you
tell the servants about Helen? Could some one go to carry her bag?"

He tapped a little gong, which had been bought to summon the servants.

"You must make more noise than that if you want them to hear."

Henry opened a door, and down the corridor came shouts of laughter. "Far
too much screaming there," he said, and strode towards it. Margaret went
upstairs, uncertain whether to be glad that they had met, or sorry. They
had behaved as if nothing had happened, and her deepest instincts told
her that this was wrong. For his own sake, some explanation was due.

And yet--what could an explanation tell her? A date, a place, a few
details, which she could imagine all too clearly. Now that the first
shock was over, she saw that there was every reason to premise a Mrs.
Bast. Henry's inner life had long laid open to her--his intellectual
confusion, his obtuseness to personal influence, his strong but furtive
passions. Should she refuse him because his outer life corresponded?
Perhaps. Perhaps, if the dishonour had been done to her, but it was done
long before her day. She struggled against the feeling. She told herself
that Mrs. Wilcox's wrong was her own. But she was not a barren theorist.
As she undressed, her anger, her regard for the dead, her desire for a
scene, all grew weak. Henry must have it as he liked, for she loved him,
and some day she would use her love to make him a better man.

Pity was at the bottom of her actions all through this crisis. Pity, if
one may generalise, is at the bottom of woman. When men like us, it is
for our better qualities, and however tender their liking, we dare not
be unworthy of it, or they will quietly let us go. But unworthiness
stimulates woman. It brings out her deeper nature, for good or for evil.

Here was the core of the question. Henry must be forgiven, and made
better by love; nothing el