Her penitence started his tears, and blinking wouldn't keep them back. He wanted to smear them away, but he didn't want to let go her hands. He turned his head. He was ashamed--but less ashamed than he would have expected--that she should see him blub. "Don't!" she said, and he had never heard that note before. "You'll make me hate myself." "I love you," he exclaimed, "I love you." "Sh! You mustn't say that, Con," she murmured. "I love you, I love you," cried the boy. "I know," she said, "I know you do." And, wonderfully, there was nothing wonderful to his mind that he had owned it to her. At the instant there was nothing but perfect peace. "You've made me so happy," he breathed. Afterwards that sounded to her a little funny, but as she heard him say it she thought it only strange and beautiful. Something tenderer than liking, something graver came into her gaze as she looked down at him. "I've not been a nice woman to you, Con," she said. "One day you'll think so." "I shall never think so," he vowed, "never. I deserved you should punish me." But that wasn't what she had meant. "You will think so." She nodded. "Only you won't mind then, because you'll laugh at it all." "You're cruel," he choked. "Because I'm not a man you think I can't love you really. No man could love you better than I do. If I could only tell you what I feel! I'd die for you, I'd do anything for you. Oh, Mrs. Adaile, I shall never see you any more--for God's sake let me kiss you once!" Quick as her compassion was, the misgiving of a boy was quicker--in the dizzy second that he saw her bending to him he wondered how he ought to hold her. Then her bosom fell upon his breathlessness, and he went to Heaven against her lips. "I must go," she said, freeing herself. "Oh, don't," he begged, "not yet." "I must; I oughtn't to have come up." "What shall I do?" he groaned. "Oh, it's awful to be leaving you!" "I wish I hadn't made you fond of me," she sighed. "You didn't; you couldn't help it. But what shall I do? My life's no good to me; I shall be thinking of you, and longing for you when you've forgotten all about me." She smoothed the ruffled hair. "Think of me sometimes when you've got over it," she said; "think of me when you're going to do anything that isn't worthy of you now." "I shall be true to you as long as I live," said the boy, understanding. "Mrs. Adaile----" It was odd to her ear that he called her that a moment after she had been in his arms. "What?" she asked. "When you go down to breakfast, _I_ shall be in Paris." "Yes," she said. "Shall you read the papers by the window this morning?" "Do you want me to?" "Yes--I should be able to know where you were." "I will then." "I shall be imagining you all the time.... What shall you do this evening?" "Reproach myself," she said. "No, you mustn't; what for? Will you think of me?"