"Don't," he begged with sudden hoarseness--and there the mannersome insouciant Varney waved an easy hand and blew himself away, like the rascally light o' heels he was--"I have to ask forgiveness of you--not give it," he said. "You have much to forgive. That day in the road--I was angry. I was not just ... not fair. I am mortified to remember ... what I said to you." His heart contracted for the trouble in her voice; his spirit made obeisance to the courage which carried her so perfectly through that pretty suit for pardon; but for himself-- "There is not one thing--believe me--that your goodness can reproach itself for--not one thing for you to be sorry for. If you have forgiven me now--for all that you had to forgive--I go away quite happy." His first easy composure, which far outmatched her own, had unsteadied her. His wasted and scarred face, which she had been quite unprepared for, had shocked her inexpressibly. And now there was this new thought knocking at the door of her mind--that he was going away quite happy. "There was something else I wanted to tell you ... if you could wait a moment ... some news." He turned toward her with a movement of pleasant interest, meant to verify his recent gallant promise; but he turned so quickly that his face had no time to come into the kindly conspiracy, and no triumph of hyperbole could have described its look as happy. "Yes? Good news, I hope?" "I won't ... be cowardly and let you think that this was accidental ... my seeing you ... and telling you that I'm sorry. We--we were going to drive down to the yacht ... after the speeches were over. I don't understand it all yet, but this afternoon a great thing happened. There came a letter from my father ... and everything is all settled now. He ... wants my mother ... more than me, now. Why shouldn't I tell you? It is what I have longed for ... prayed for every night ... for twelve years. We are going to New York--to-morrow--to see my father." His great gladness at that made him forget himself entirely, and for the first time he could look at her. "Why, I can't _tell_ you how glad I am! How tremendously happy that makes me!" She sat back in her cushioned seat, still as a sculptured lady, hands clasped on her silken lap, eyes gone off down the street, though not for vision, to where Hare was thundering a splendid peroration. He had already become aware, without looking at her, that she was richly and beautifully dressed; but he was hardly prepared for the effect which such a setting would have upon her face. For all his conjuring of memory, he had forgotten that she looked quite like that.... "Yes ... it makes me happy, too. And my mother wants to ask you--no, I do--that is, both of us want to ask you--if you won't allow us to go down ... in the yacht?" Misunderstanding, the senseless world started mad antics again; but Intelligence, which saw more clearly, reached out a long arm and jerked it firmly back on its feet.