child," he began, but could not go on, for the quivering of
his lips.

"I wanted to say once more, Daddy, that I'm fearfully sorry about you.
And I am ashamed of myself; I thought I wasn't, but I am--only, I think
it was cruel, and I'm not penitent to God; and it's no good trying to
make me."

Pierson turned and looked at her. For a long time after, she could not
get that look out of her memory.

Jimmy Fort had turned away from Noel feeling particularly wretched. Ever
since the day when Leila had told him of the girl's misfortune he had
been aware that his liaison had no decent foundation, save a sort of
pity. One day, in a queer access of compunction, he had made Leila an
offer of marriage. She had refused; and he had respected her the more,
realising by the quiver in her voice and the look in her eyes that she
refused him, not because she did not love him well enough, but because
she was afraid of losing any of his affection. She was a woman of great
experience.

To-day he had taken advantage of the luncheon interval to bring her some
flowers, with a note to say that he could not come that evening. Letting
himself in with his latchkey, he had carefully put those Japanese azaleas
in the bowl "Famille Rose," taking water from her bedroom. Then he had
sat down on the divan with his head in his hands.

Though he had rolled so much about the world, he had never had much to do
with women. And there was nothing in him of the Frenchman, who takes
what life puts in his way as so much enjoyment on the credit side, and
accepts the ends of such affairs as they naturally and rather rapidly
arrive. It had been a pleasure, and was no longer a pleasure; but this
apparently did not dissolve it, or absolve him. He felt himself bound by
an obscure but deep instinct to go on pretending that he was not tired of
her, so long as she was not tired of him. And he sat there trying to
remember any sign, however small, of such a consummation, quite without
success. On the contrary, he had even the wretched feeling that if only
he had loved her, she would have been much more likely to have tired of
him by now. For her he was still the unconquered, in spite of his loyal
endeavour to seem conquered. He had made a fatal mistake, that evening
after the concert at Queen's Hall, to let himself go, on a mixed tide of
desire and pity!

His folly came to him with increased poignancy after he had parted from
Noel. How could he have been