w you two happened to meet,
I have never guessed."

"She came here, Stuart, to explain things which she thought put you in
an unsightly light--and to say that whatever blame there was belonged to
her."

"She did that?" Stuart Farquaharson's face reddened to the temples and
his voice became feelingly defensive. "If Marian told you that she had
been more to blame than I, she let her generosity do her a wrong. I
can't accept an advantage gained at such a cost, Conscience. I think all
of her mistakes grew out of an exaggerated innocence and she's paid high
enough for them. Marian Holbury is a woman who needs no defense unless
it's against pure slander."

"Stuart," Conscience's voice was deep with earnestness, "a woman only
sets herself a task like that because she loves a man."

"Oh, no," he hastily demurred. "It may be from friendship, too."

But his companion shook her head. "With her it was love. She told me
so."

"Told you so!" Farquaharson echoed the words in tones of almost militant
incredulity, and Conscience went on thoughtfully:

"I was wondering if, after all, she might not make you very happy--and
might not be very happy herself in doing it."

If she was deliberately hurting him it was not out of a light curiosity
or any meanness of motive. Her own tranquillity was severely pressed,
but she must know the truth, and if a love for herself, which could come
to no fruition, stood between him and possible happiness, she must do
what she could to sweep it away. This was a new thought, but a grave
one.

For a while Stuart was silent, as he studied the high colors of the sea
and sky, contracting his eyes as if the glare pained them, and in his
face Conscience read, clear, the truth of her suspicion.

"Conscience," he said at last, "I asked Marian to marry me two years
ago--and she refused. That's all I can say."

But for the woman it was enough. She needed no explanation of why Marian
had refused an offer from the lips and unseconded by the heart. She came
to her feet, and her knees felt weak. She was afraid to let this
conversation progress. He loved her--and if he could read the prohibited
eagerness of her heart he would come breaking through barriers as a
charging elephant breaks its way through light timber.

"Ira is calling," she announced lightly, "and he speaks with the voice
of the tide. We must hurry or we won't make it back across the
shallows."

CHAPTER XXIV

But that night it happen