“At Baden,” Mrs. Vivian went on, “I had views. But I have n’t any now--I have given them up.” “That makes your acceptance of me very flattering!” Bernard exclaimed, laughing still more gaily. “I have something better,” said Mrs. Vivian, laying her finger-tips on his arm. “I have confidence.” Bernard did his best to encourage this gracious sentiment, and it seemed to him that there was something yet to be done to implant it more firmly in Angela’s breast. “I have a confession to make to you,” he said to her one day. “I wish you would listen to it.” “Is it something very horrible?” Angela asked. “Something very horrible indeed. I once did you an injury.” “An injury?” she repeated, in a tone which seemed to reduce the offence to contemptible proportions by simple vagueness of mind about it. “I don’t know what to call it,” said Bernard. “A poor service--an ill-turn.” Angela gave a shrug, or rather an imitation of a shrug; for she was not a shrugging person. “I never knew it.” “I misrepresented you to Gordon Wright,” Bernard went on. “Why do you speak to me of him?” she asked rather sadly. “Does it displease you?” She hesitated a little. “Yes, it displeases me. If your confession has anything to do with him, I would rather not hear it.” Bernard returned to the subject another time--he had plenty of opportunities. He spent a portion of every day in the company of these dear women; and these days were the happiest of his life. The autumn weather was warm and soothing, the quartier was still deserted, and the uproar of the great city, which seemed a hundred miles away, reached them through the dense October air with a softened and muffled sound. The evenings, however, were growing cool, and before long they lighted the first fire of the season in Mrs. Vivian’s heavily draped little chimney-piece. On this occasion Bernard sat there with Angela, watching the bright crackle of the wood and feeling that the charm of winter nights had begun. These two young persons were alone together in the gathering dusk; it was the hour before dinner, before the lamp had been lighted. “I insist upon making you my confession,” said Bernard. “I shall be very unhappy until you let me do it.” “Unhappy? You are the happiest of men.” “I lie upon roses, if you will; but this memory, this remorse, is a folded rose-leaf. I was completely mistaken about you at Baden; I thought all manner of evil of you--or at least I said it.” “Men are dull creatures,” said Angela. “I think they are. So much so that, as I look back upon that time, there are some things I don’t understand even now.” “I don’t see why you should look back. People in our position are supposed to look forward.” “You don’t like those Baden days yourself,” said Bernard. “You don’t like to think of them.” “What a wonderful discovery!” Bernard looked at her a moment in the brightening fire-light. “What part was it you tried to play there?” Angela shook her head. “Men are dull creatures.”