the two, for me, the physical is the
essential. I can't help it. If I had to choose between a soldier and a
saint, I'd take the soldier. When the worst is said of Monsieur de
Bienville, it must be admitted that he's brave."

"I've always understood that he was a good rider and a good shot," Diane
admitted. "I've no doubt that in battle he would conduct himself like a
hero."

The girl's head went up proudly, and from the languorous eyes there came
one splendid flash before the lids fell over them again.

"I know he would; and when a man has that sort of courage he's worth
saving."

"You admit, then, that he needs to be--saved?" Again the heavy lids were
lifted for one brief, search-light glance.

"Yes; I admit that. I believe he has wronged you. I can't tell you how I
know it; but I do. It's to tell you so that I've asked you to come here.
I hoped to make you see, as I do, that he's capable of doing it without
appreciating the nature of his crime. If we could get him to see that--"

"Then--what?"

"He'd make you reparation."

"Are you so sure?"

"I'm very sure. If he didn't--" The consequences of that possibility
being difficult of expression, she hung upon her words.

"I should be sorry to have you brought to so momentous a decision on my
account."

"It wouldn't be on your account; it would be on my own. I understand
myself well enough to see that I could love a dishonorable man; but I
couldn't marry him."

"You have, of course, your own idea as to what makes a man
dishonorable."

"What makes a man dishonorable is to persist in dishonor after he has
become aware of it. Any one may speak thoughtlessly, or boastfully, or
foolishly, and be forgiven for it. But he can't be forgiven if he keeps
it up, especially when by his doing so a woman has to suffer."

The movement with which Diane pushed back her chair and rose betrayed a
troubled rather than an impatient spirit.

"Miss Grimston," she said, standing before the girl and looking down
upon her, "I should almost prefer not to have you take my affairs into
your consideration. I doubt if they're worth it. I can't deny that I
shrink from becoming a factor in your life, as well as from feeling that
you must make your decisions, or unmake them, with reference to me."

"I'm not making my decisions, or unmaking them, with reference to you;
it's with reference to Monsieur de Bienville. He has my father's consent
to his asking me to be his wife. I understand th