he is ready to trample her in the mire, under his feet."

Straightening himself up, as a man who defends his position, he took an
argumentative tone.

"What motive would Bienville have for lying?--to a stranger?--and about
a stranger? There are moments when you know a man is telling you the
truth, as if he were in the confessional. He wasn't speaking of you, but
of himself. Not only were no names mentioned, but he had no reason to
think I had ever heard of the woman he talked to me about, nor has he
yet. If it hadn't been for your own half-hints, your own
half-confessions, I doubt if I should ever have had more than a suspicion
of--of--the truth."

"I could have explained everything," she said, with a break in her
voice. "I've never concealed from you the fact that there was a time in
my life when I was very indiscreet. I lived like the women of fashion
around me. I was inconsiderate of other people. I did things that were
wrong. But before I knew you I had repented of them."

"Quite so; but, unfortunately, what is conventionally known as a
repentant woman is not the sort of person I would have chosen to be near
my child."

She rose, wearily, dragging herself toward the desk. "Now that I've
heard your opinion of me," she said, quietly, "I suppose you have no
reason for detaining me any longer."

"Are you going away?" he asked, sharply.

"What else is there for me to do?"

"Have you nothing to say in your own defence?"

"You haven't asked me to say anything. You've tried and condemned me
unheard. Since you adopt that method of justice I'm forced to abide by
it. I'm not like a person who has rights or who can claim protection
from any outside authority. You're not only judge and jury to me, but my
final court of appeal. I must take what you mete out to me--and bear
it."

"I don't want to be hard on you," he groaned.

"No; I can believe that. I dare say the situation is just as cruel for
you as for me. When circumstances become so entangled that you can't
explain them, everybody has to suffer."

"I'm glad you can do me that justice. My life for the past week--ever
since Bienville began to talk to me--has been hell."

"I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry to have brought it on you. I'm afraid,
too, that the future may be harder for you still; for no man can do a
woman such wrong as you're doing me, and not pay for it."

"Wrong? Can you honestly say I'm doing you wrong, Diane? Isn't it
true--you'll pardon me if I