I have done some horrible things, Seymour."

"They are past. Let us forget them."

"But--horrible things come back in one's life! They are like
_revenants_. After years--they rise up."

"What is the matter, Adela? Do tell me."

"I want to, but I'm afraid."

And directly she had told him that she felt less afraid.

"What are you afraid of?"

"I'm afraid of you."

"Of me?"

"Of what you may think of me, feel towards me, if I tell you."

"Then--you do care what I feel?"

"I care very much. I care terribly."

Sir Seymour uncrossed his legs and made a slight movement as if he were
going to get up. Then he sat still and took a pull at his cigar, and
then he said:

"You need not be afraid of me, Adela. I have made up my mind about you.
Do you know what that means? It means that you cannot surprise me. And
I think it is surprise which oftenest brings about changes in feeling.
What is it? You say it is something to do with Miss Van Tuyn?"

"Yes, but my life is in it, too; a horrible bit of my life."

"What can I do unless you tell me?"

"That's true."

She sat for a moment in silence gazing at him, at the lean figure, the
weather-beaten face, the curly white hair, and at the dark eyes which
were looking steadily at her, but not penetratingly, not cruelly. And
then she sat straight up, took her arm from the sofa, folded her hands
on her lap with an effort to make them look calm, and began to tell him.
She spoke very simply, very steadily. She dressed nothing up. She
strove to diminish nothing. Her only aim was to be quite unemotional and
perfectly truthful. She began with Beryl Van Tuyn's acquaintance with
Arabian, how she had met him in Garstin's studio, and went on till she
came to the night when she and Craven had seen them together at the
_Bella Napoli_.

"I recognized the man Beryl was with," she said. "I knew him to be a
blackguard."

She described her abrupt departure from the restaurant, Craven's
following her, her effort to persuade him to go back and to take Beryl
home.

"I went home alone," she said, "and considered what I ought to do.
Finally I wrote Beryl a letter, it was something like this."

She gave him the gist of the letter. Seymour sat smoking and did not say
a word. Her narrative had been so consecutive and plain that he had
not need to ask any question. And she was glad of his silence. Any
interruption, she felt, would have upset her, perhaps even have confused
her.

"Beryl wa