“From her letters you’d say she was flourishing. I didn’t realize——” He hesitated a moment. Then—“I say—you might send me a line sometimes—on your own——” He did not see her nod. Expecting an answer, he glanced up enquiringly to catch a look on her face that set him thinking. When he spoke again his tone had altered—Mrs. Cloud had dropped out of sight. “Will you? Don’t forget. One likes getting letters out there.” She flushed a sudden scarlet. “I will. Of course I will. I would have before—if I’d thought—if I’d dreamed you wanted—if you’d said——” She tangled herself into silence. But it was a silence that was not pause but preparation, preliminary, the recession of the sea between wave and wave. Here was her chance.... For this she had prayed.... He was giving her her chance!... She would take it.... She would not be cowardly, nor falsely ashamed.... She would take her chance.... “Justin—I did write. I tried to write to you. I tore it up. I thought you’d never listen. I wanted to explain—about that wicked thing I did. Justin—I wanted to say—I want to say——” She paused. Her face was burning. Her lips were dry. The shaping of words was difficult. She found herself looking to him for help. He, too, had coloured; but his eyes were kind. He uttered incredible words— “It’s all right, Laura. Don’t worry.” She could not comprehend. She stumbled on again. “—to say I’m sorry. You’ll never know how sorry I am. I’d no shadow of right to do it. I see that now.” She stopped abruptly, believing she saw in his quick movement—he had risen from his chair and was fidgeting with the toys on the mantel—his man’s apprehension of a scene. She watched him, absurdly occupied in piling matches, spilliken fashion: watched and waited till she could wait no longer. “Justin——” she petitioned. He turned. He was smiling at her—shyly, significantly, half-laughing. “Don’t worry, Laura,” he said again. His meaning was obvious enough, yet she stared at him, too incredulous to feel relief or contentment or triumph—any of the emotions she had a right to feel. “Do you mean—is it possible—you don’t mind any more?” “Not much,” he confessed. “You’ve got over it—that I smashed it—your eggs—the collection—the only thing you ever cared about?” “Oh, look here—I’m not a fool,” he protested. “I never made such a God Almighty out of them as that!” “Oh, Justin, you did!” cried Laura. It was tactless; but she was too relieved to be careful. And yet a little blank—a little sore. It was strange to feel the nightmare of two years proved dream-stuff, swept aside, nullified in a moment, with a laugh.... It had been real enough to her.... She had paid, she was still paying, it seemed, for what he had long ago forgotten.... Somehow—it didn’t seem fair.... Justin’s voice recalled her thoughts, shifted them from herself to him. Her soreness passed as she listened to him, grown serious again. He was explaining himself to her, slowly, with naïve interest.