e round a man?"

"It is difficult for us," said Margaret; "but if we are worth marrying,
we do guess."

"Cut off from decent society and family ties, what do you suppose
happens to thousands of young fellows overseas? Isolated. No one near. I
know by bitter experience, and yet you say it makes 'no difference.'"

"Not to me."

He laughed bitterly. Margaret went to the sideboard and helped herself
to one of the breakfast dishes. Being the last down, she turned out the
spirit-lamp that kept them warm. She was tender, but grave. She knew
that Henry was not so much confessing his soul as pointing out the gulf
between the male soul and the female, and she did not desire to hear him
on this point.

"Did Helen come?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"But that won't do at all, at all! We don't want her gossiping with Mrs.
Bast."

"Good God! no!" he exclaimed, suddenly natural. Then he caught himself
up. "Let them gossip, my game's up, though I thank you for your
unselfishness--little as my thanks are worth."

"Didn't she send me a message or anything?"

"I heard of none."

"Would you ring the bell, please?"

"What to do?"

"Why, to inquire."

He swaggered up to it tragically, and sounded a peal. Margaret poured
herself out some coffee. The butler came, and said that Miss Schlegel
had slept at the George, so far as he had heard. Should he go round to
the George?

"I'll go, thank you," said Margaret, and dismissed him.

"It is no good," said Henry. "Those things leak out; you cannot stop a
story once it has started. I have known cases of other men--I despised
them once, I thought that I'm different, I shall never be tempted. Oh,
Margaret--" He came and sat down near her, improvising emotion. She
could not bear to listen to him. "We fellows all come to grief once in
our time. Will you believe that? There are moments when the strongest
man--'Let him who standeth, take heed lest he fall.' That's true,
isn't it? If you knew all, you would excuse me. I was far from good
influences--far even from England. I was very, very lonely, and longed
for a woman's voice. That's enough. I have told you too much already for
you to forgive me now."

"Yes, that's enough, dear."

"I have"--he lowered his voice--"I have been through hell."

Gravely she considered this claim. Had he? Had he suffered tortures of
remorse, or had it been, "There! that's over. Now for respectable life
again"? The latter, if she read him rightly. A