smile, and
went on in his low, pleasant voice: "I am afraid I have been dramatic. .
. . All I meant to say is that my humiliation, witnessed by you, is a
heavier price to pay--a more painful reckoning with Fate, than I had
really ever looked for."

"I--I had no contempt for you," she faltered.

"You could not escape it; but it is kind of you to say that."

"You don't understand. I had no contempt. I was--it--the dread of harm to
you--frightened me. . . . And afterward I was only so sorry for you--and
wanted to--to help----"

He nodded. "The larger charity," he said. "You may read all about it
there in that Bible, but--the world takes it out in reading about it. . .
. I do not mean to speak bitterly. . . . There is nothing wrong with me
as far as the world goes--I mean _my_ world. . . . Only--in the other and
real world there is--you. . . . You, who did not pass by on the other
side; and to whom the Scriptures there are merely the manual which you
practice--for the sake of Christ."

"You think me better--far better than I am."

"I know what you are. I know what it cost you to even let me lean on you,
there in the glare of the electric light--there where men stood leering
and sneering and misjudging you!--and my blood on your pretty gown----"

"Oh--I did not think--care about that--or the men----"

"You cared about them. It is a growing torture to you. Even in the
generous flush of mercy you thought of it; you said you would never go
back to that hotel. I knew why you said it. I knew what, even then, you
suffered--what of fear and shame and outraged modesty. I know what you
stood for, there in the street with a half-senseless crook hanging to
your arm--tugging for a weapon which would have sent two more mongrels to
hell----"

"You shall not say that!" she cried, white and trembling. "You did not
know what you were doing----"

He interrupted: "'For they know not what they do.' . . . You are right. .
. . We don't really know, any of us. But few, except such as you, believe
it--few except such as you--and the Master who taught you. . . . And that
is all, I think. . . . I can't thank you; I can't even try. . . . It is
too close to melodrama now--not on your side, dear little lady!"

He rose.

"Are you--going?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

He turned unconsciously and looked through the windows into the southern
darkness.

"I--want you to stay," she said.

He turned and bent toward her with his youthful and engagin