it's because I married you."

"Watts, you couldn't be bad if you tried." And Mrs. D'Alloi put her arms
round Watts's neck and kissed him.

Watts fondled her for a moment in true lover's fashion. Then he said,
"Dear little wife, a pure woman can never quite know what this world is.
I love Dot next to you, and would not give her to a man whom I believe
would not be true to her, or make her happy. I know every circumstance
of Peter's connection with that woman, and he is as blameless as man
ever was. Such as it was, it was ended years ago, and can never give him
more trouble. He is a strong man, and will be true to Dot. She might get
a man who would make her life one long torture. She may be won by a man
who only cares for her money, and will not even give her the husks of
love. But Peter loves her, and has outgrown his mistakes. And don't
forget that but for him we might now have nothing but some horribly
mangled remains to remember of our little darling. Dear, I love Dot
twenty times more than I love Peter. For her sake, and yours, I am
trying to do my best for her."

So presently Mrs. D'Alloi came into the library, where Peter sat. She
held out her hand to him, but Peter said:

"Let me say something first. Mrs. D'Alloi, I would not have had that
occurrence happen in your home or presence if I had been able to prevent
it. It grieves me more than I can tell you. I am not a roue. In spite of
appearances I have lived a clean life. I shall never live any other in
the future. I--I love Leonore. Love her very dearly. And if you will
give her to me, should I win her, I pledge you my word that I will give
her the love, and tenderness, and truth which she deserves. Now, will
you give me your hand?"

"He is speaking the truth," thought Mrs. D'Alloi, as Peter spoke. She
held out her hand. "I will trust her to you if she chooses you."

Half an hour later, Peter went back to the drawing-room, to find Leonore
reposing in an exceedingly undignified position before the fire on a big
tiger-skin, and stroking a Persian cat, who, in delight at this enviable
treatment, purred and dug its claws into the rug. Peter stood for a time
watching the pretty tableau, wishing he was a cat.

"Yes, Tawney-eye," said Leonore, in heartrending tones, "it isn't a good
day at all."

"I'm going to quarrel with you on that," said Peter. "It's a glorious
day."

Leonore rose from the skin. "Tawney-eye and I don't think so."

"But you will. In the f