poor chap have a happy Christmas?"

She seemed to be considering it. "You think me very hard," said she.

"Oh no, no, not hard." But he was wondering for the first time what this
wife of his was made of.

"Yes, hard. I don't want you to think me hard. If you could understand
why I cannot meet that man--what it means to me--the effect it has on
me."

"What," he said, "is the precise effect?" He was really interested. He
had always been curious to know how different men affected different
women, and to get his knowledge at first hand.

"It's the effect," said she, "of being brought into contact with
something terribly painful and repulsive, the effect of intense
suffering--of unbearable disgust."

He listened with his thoughtful, interested air. "I know. The effect that
your friend Canon Wharton sometimes has on me."

"I see no resemblance between Canon Wharton and your friend Mr. Gorst."

"And I see no resemblance between my friend Mr. Gorst and Canon Wharton."

She was silent, gathering all her strength to deliver her spirit's last
appeal.

"Dear," said she (for she wished to be very gentle with him, since he had
thought her hard), "dear, I wonder if you ever realise what the thing we
call--purity is?"

He blushed violently.

"I only know it's one of those things one doesn't speak about."

"I must speak," said she.

"You needn't," he said curtly; "I understand all right."

"If you did you wouldn't ask me. All the same, Walter--" She lifted to
him the set face of a saint surrendered to the torture--"If you compel
me--"

"Compel you? I can't compel you. Especially if you're going to look like
that."

"It's no use," he said to Edith. "First she talks of dining with the
Gardners--"

"She will, too--"

"No. She'll stay--if I compel her."

"Oh, I see. That's worse. She'd let him see it. He wouldn't enjoy his
Christmas if he came."

"No, poor fellow, I really don't think he would. She's awfully funny
about him."

"You still think her funny?"

"My dear--it's the only way to take her. I'm sorry, but I can't let
Charlie spoil her Christmas; nor," he added, "Anne his."

So Mr. Gorst did not come to Prior Street that Christmas. There came
instead of him whole sheaves and stacks of flowers, Christmas roses and
white lilies, the sacred flowers which, at that festival, the poor
prodigal brought as his tribute to his adored and beloved lady.

He spent the greater part of his Christmas Day in the societ