“Well, I am. We won’t mention his name—for reasons which will appear: but I’m going to tell you about him because I _must_.” Her tone sank to a whisper tense and vibrant. “I’ve bottled it up, Perry”—the man started, and the clasp of the cool fingers became a grip—“till I’m nearly out of my mind. Think what it means to have no confidant—not a single soul to talk to who can ever begin to understand. . . . I drove over here from San Sebastian, praying for death by the way . . . _I came to find a confidant_—some stranger that I could talk to, under the mask, and then—then I saw you.” Peregrine felt rather dazed. “Let’s get outside,” he said uncertainly. They made their way through the press, across the echoing hall and on to the terrace without. This was silent and starlit, cool with the faint crush of breakers, full of the airs and graces of the summer night. As they sat down— “Tell me about him,” said Peregrine. The girl leaned back in her chair and cupped her chin in her palm. “I often wonder,” she said, “what made me marry him. Some evil spirit, I suppose . . . I wasn’t a prisoner then. He is so very obviously not my style. But for some strange reason or other I fell in love with him, Perry, and before I knew where I was the damage was done.” She sighed. “So much for me . . . He married me for my money and because a wife—in her place—can be a convenient thing. He soon had me in my place. . . .” She threw back her head there, to stare at the stars. Presently she continued dreamily. “I’ve many failings, Perry, but I’ll tell you one of my worst—_I loathe a row_. . . . It’s a very perilous failing, because you’re at the mercy of the person who finds it out. . . . Well, that’s how my downfall began. Rather than have unpleasantness, however just my case, I always gave way—with the inevitable result that now I’ve lost the very knack of moral courage, while the unpleasantness I sought to avoid has become the feature of my life.” She paused there, to steal a glance at the man. Peregrine was staring straight ahead, his hands clenching the arms of his wicker chair. Joan proceeded steadily. “I said that he wasn’t my style. That’s putting it rather low. He’s rather like a tiger, while I’m like a poodle-dog. . . . He’s a brilliant, striking personality—swift, heartless and unearthly strong. Women go mad about him: men dislike him—but they always give him the wall. Wherever he goes he dominates. It isn’t force of will, because it’s effortless: he never makes up his mind to get his own way—he just takes it, always, no matter at whose cost. But he—he never pays. . . . Well, if that’s his way with the world, you can imagine, Perry, how far the poodle gets. . . . But that’s not all. I’ve come—it’s very natural—I’ve come to irritate him. . . .” She sighed heavily, and a dreary, hopeless note slid into her voice.