Although Hockmaster's revelation had jarred through his whole being, he judged her gently now. He was honest-souled enough to disintegrate æsthetic disgust from abiding emotion. He was keenly sensible of the agony she had endured at dinner, and he suffered with her truly and loyally. But the ignobleness attendant on all the conditions of Hockmaster's drunken confidence spread itself for the time like a foul curtain over finer feelings. He could not help wishing that she had told him her story. That the consciousness of her position as a divorced woman had been the cause of the constraint of her letters, he could no longer doubt. That she intended to make all clear to him before she definitely pledged herself to him as his wife, he was absolutely certain. His nature was too loyal for him to suspect otherwise. There he read her truly. But why had she waited? It would have made his present course of action so much more simple, had the spoken confidence between them enabled him to take the initiative. Now his hands were tied. He could do nothing but wait until she made the sign. Thus the thought, in calmer, nobler moments. But then the common story of seduction, with its vulgar stigma of the divorce court, and the personality of the reeling, hiccoughing man, sent a shiver through his flesh. In the morning he spent an hour with his father, forgetting for the while his own troubles in endeavours to cheer and amuse. On his way out, he met Mme. Boccard, who greeted him with plaintive volubility. His American friend had paid his bill and left orders for his bag to be given to the porter from the Hôtel National. She was sorry her establishment had not been to his liking. What did Monsieur Chetwynd think of the dinner? What had been lacking? And the bed? It was a beautiful bed--as it happened, the best in all the pension. Raine consoled her, as best he could, for the American's defection, but in his heart he was grimly pleased at this sign of grace in his late friend. He had some idea, at least, when sober, of common decency. Mme. Boccard enquired concernedly after the professor, was delighted to hear that he was mending. “Ah, that is good,” she said, “it would not be suitable if too many people were ill. The pension would get a bad name. That poor Mme. Stapleton is still suffering this morning. It is Mr. Chetwynd who will be sorry.” “Nothing serious?” asked Raine, in some alarm. “Oh no--_une crise des nerfs. Que voulez-vous? Les dames sont comme cela._”