rent impulse. "Clementina, it isn't a
question now of that wretch's life and death, and I wish I need never
speak of him again. But what he told you was true." He looked steadfastly
at her, and she realized how handsome he was, and how well dressed. His
thick red hair seemed to have grown darker above his forehead; his
moustache was heavier, and it curved in at the corners of his mouth; he
bore himself with a sort of self-disdain that enhanced his splendor. "I
have never changed toward you; I don't say it to make favor with you; I
don't expect to do that now; but it is true. That night, there at
Middlemount, I tried to take back what I said, because I believed that I
ought."

"Oh, yes, I knew that," said Clementina, in the pause he made.

"We were both too young; I had no prospect in life; I saw, the instant
after I had spoken, that I had no right to let you promise anything. I
tried to forget you; I couldn't. I tried to make you forget me." He
faltered, and she did not speak, but her head drooped a little. "I won't
ask how far I succeeded. I always hoped that the time would come when I
could speak to you again. When I heard from Fane that you were at
Woodlake, I wished to come out and see you, but I hadn't the courage, I
hadn't the right. I've had to come to you without either, now. Did he
speak to you about me?"

"I thought he was beginning to, once; but he neva did."

"It didn't matter; it could only have made bad worse. It can't help me to
say that somehow I was wishing and trying to do what was right; but I
was."

"Oh, I know that, Mr. Gregory," said Clementina, generously.

"Then you didn't doubt me, in spite of all?"

"I thought you would know what to do. No, I didn't doubt you, exactly."

"I didn't deserve your trust!" he cried. "How came that man to mention
me?" he demanded, abruptly, after a moment's silence.

"Mr. Belsky? It was the first night I saw him, and we were talking about
Americans, and he began to tell me about an American friend of his, who
was very conscientious. I thought it must be you the fust moment," said
Clementina, smiling with an impersonal pleasure in the fact.

"From the conscientiousness?" he asked, in bitter self-irony.

"Why, yes," she returned, simply. "That was what made me think of you.
And the last time when he began to talk about you, I couldn't stop him,
although I knew he had no right to."

"He had no right. But I gave him the power to do it! He meant no harm,
but