had killed her husband's love; she had
supposed that it would do the same kind office for his. Would any other
woman have thought of it? It was preposterous, of course; but it would
not have been Mrs. Nevill Tyson's idea without some touch of divine
absurdity.

But--could any other woman have done it? "See what it was you loved so
much." Poor little fool!

And he saw. This was not Mrs. Nevill Tyson, but it was the woman that he
had loved. Her being Mrs. Nevill Tyson was an accident; it had nothing to
do with _her_. Her beauty too? It was gone. So was something that had
obscured his judgment of her. He had doubted her over and over again,
unwillingly at first, willfully at the end; but he knew now that if for
one instant she had justified his skepticism he would have ceased to love
her. It was the paradox of her purity, dimly discerned under all his
doubt, that had tormented and fascinated him; and she held him by it
still.

His fingers worked nervously, plaiting and unplaiting the fringe.

"You were burnt. Where was Nevill then?"

"He was here."

"Was _he_ burnt?"

"No; but he might have been. He--he helped to put the fire out. Oh,
Louis, it's horribly hard on him!"

Stanistreet clenched his teeth lest he should blaspheme.

"How long have you known Nevill?" she asked, as if she had read his
thoughts.

"I don't know. A long time--"

"How many years? Think."

"Fifteen perhaps. We were at Marlborough together in seventy-eight."

"You've known him twenty years then. And you have known me--three?"

"Four, Molly--four next September."

"Well, four then. It isn't a long time. And you see it wasn't enough, to
know me in, was it?"

He said nothing; but the fringe dropped from his fingers.

"You were Nevill's best friend too, weren't you?"

"Yes. His best friend, and his worst, God help me!"

"I suppose that means you've quarreled with him? I thought I heard you.
But, of course, you didn't know."

"Forgive me, I did not." He had misunderstood her--again!

"Well, you know now. I wasn't worth quarreling about, was I?"

He got up and leaned out of the window, looking into the dull street that
roared seventy feet below. Then he sighed; and whether it was a sigh of
relief or pain he could not tell.

Neither did Mrs. Nevill Tyson in her great wisdom know.

CHAPTER XIX

CONFESSIONAL

After all, Tyson was the first to make up the quarrel. If a sense of
justice was wanting in him it was supplied