ly, each had taken the best method to disarm the other.
Before scornful, angry denunciation, he could have burst out into
voluble explanation and defence which, in its turn, would have
antagonized Beatrix beyond any possibility of relenting. For the
unpardonable sin, forgiveness must be a free gift. Confronted by
excuses, Beatrix would have been unyielding. In the face of his
humility, she hesitated to speak the final condemnation, and instinct
taught her that feminine reproaches were worse than futile in the face
of a real crisis.

[Illustration: "'Can't you make any sort of an excuse for yourself,
Sidney?' she demanded"]

"How did you happen to do it, Sidney?" she asked quietly, as she seated
herself again beside the deserted tea table and began absently setting
the disordered cups into straight rows.

He raised his eyes from the carpet.

"Because I was a brute," he said briefly.

Methodically she sorted out the spoons in two little piles. Then,
pushing them together into a disorderly heap, she started to her feet
and faced him.

"Can't you make any sort of an excuse for yourself, Sidney?" she
demanded, and there was a desperate ring to her words.

He shook his head.

"I can't see any," he replied, after an interval. Suddenly he laughed
harshly. "Unless you count total depravity," he added.

She ignored the laugh.

"I suppose you know, then, what this means," she said slowly, so slowly
that it seemed as if each word caught in her throat.

His face whitened and he started to speak; but his voice failed him. He
bowed in silence.

"I am sorry," she went on, while the cords in her clasped hands stood
out like bits of rattan; "perhaps I am more sorry than you are; but
there seems to be nothing else that I can do. Last night was the
tragedy of my life; to-day is the hardest, the longest day I have ever
spent. But--"

Bending forward, he took up one of the spoons from the table and looked
at it intently for a moment. Under his mustache his lips worked
nervously, and Beatrix saw the moisture gather in great drops upon his
forehead. Fortunately she could not see his eyes, for their long lashes
veiled them. It was better so; she could hold herself more steady. There
was a certain mercilessness in the way she waited for him to break the
silence.

"Is it final?" he asked at length. "I wish you would give me another
chance, Beatrix."

"I have given you too many, as it is," she replied sadly.

He looked up at