ed, though you've a perfect right. I've made a
ghastly, a perfectly hideous mistake. I--I can't think how I ever came to
do it. But--but I wouldn't mind so frightfully if it weren't for you.
That's what troubles me most--to have made a horrible mess of my life,
and to have dragged you into it." Her voice shook, and she broke off for
a moment, biting her lips. Then: "Oh, Jerry," she wailed, "I've done a
dreadful thing--a dreadful thing! Don't you see it--what he will think of
me--how he will despise me?"

The last words came muffled through her hands. Her head was bowed against
the chimney-piece.

Jerry was nonplussed. He rose somewhat awkwardly, and drew near the bowed
figure.

"But, my dear girl," he said, laying a slightly hesitating hand upon her
shoulder, "what the devil does it matter what he thinks? Surely you
don't--you can't care--care the toss of a half-penny?"

But here she amazed him still further.

"I do, Jerry, I do!" she whispered vehemently. "He's horrid--oh, he's
horrid. But I can't help caring. I wanted him to think the very worst
possible of me before I came. But now--but now--Then too, there's you,"
she ended irrelevantly. "What could they do to you, Jerry? Could they put
you in prison?"

"Great Scott, no!" said Jerry. "You needn't cry over me. I always manage
to fall on my feet. And, anyhow, it isn't a hanging matter. I say, cheer
up, Nan, old girl! Don't you think you'd better go to bed? No? Well, let
me play you something cheerful, then. I've never seen you in the dumps
before. And I don't like it. I quite thought this would be one of our
red-letter days. Look up, I say! I believe you're crying."

Nan was not crying, but such was the concern in his voice that she raised
her head and smiled to reassure him.

"You're very, very good to me, Jerry," she said earnestly. "And oh, I do
hope I haven't got you into trouble!"

"Don't you worry your head about me," said Jerry cheerfully. "You're
tired out, you know. You really ought to go to bed. Let's have something
rousing, with a chorus, and then we'll say good-night."

He took up his banjo again, and dashed without preliminary into the gay
strains of "The Girl I Left Behind Me."

He sang with a gaiety that even Nan did not imagine to be feigned, and,
lest lack of response should again damp his spirits, she forced herself
to join in the refrain. Faster and faster went Jerry's fingers, faster
and faster ran the song, his voice and Nan's minglin