he fender, and one hand
gripping the mantel-shelf.

"You've got your wish, Daddy," she said dully: "Everybody knows now.
I've told Mr. Lauder, and Monsieur, and the Dinnafords."

She saw his fingers uncrisp, then grip the shelf again. "I'm glad," he
said.

"Aunt Thirza gave me a ring to wear, but I've thrown it away."

"My dearest 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 no