But, though he thought thus, though the burden in his arms was so unutterably dear to him, he had a conviction that he should not be able to refrain from returning to the subject of Meramble. Things were not yet satisfactorily settled. Lawrence could not understand how any self-respecting man could be willing that any of his womankind should be more than barely civil to a person like Meramble. Even women here in St. Augustine, who skimmed very near the fence that separated the respectable from those that were not respectable, stopped at Meramble. Some of them looked over the fence longingly, for Meramble was said to be mysteriously entertaining, and charmingly devoted when he chose to be so. And there was about his appearance something that seemed a cross between a man of the world and a bandit. And he could sing; why, those who had heard him averred that even Mario could never have so "charmed with a tenor note the souls in purgatory" as could this man. Still, Meramble was "in society" and yet was only tolerated. The stories about him perhaps made him more interesting, while they made people afraid. The men nodded distantly at him; what friends he found were women who would not be thought intimate with him, but who would not cut him dead, on "account of his brigand face," their husbands said. It may be permitted to remark here that the time when a man thinks he has been "harsh and brutal" is the time when his wife can most easily "twist him about her finger." When Prudence woke, ten minutes later, she found Lawrence sitting motionless lest he should disturb her. She opened her eyes and gazed sleepily at him for an instant. Then she smiled and nestled still nearer to him. "You dear old thing," she said, in a whisper, "you must be aching in every bone. You may move now." Lawrence changed his position slightly, but still held her. "There's one thing I want to ask," he said, presently. Prudence raised her head. "Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, with a smile, "when a person wants to ask one thing it's sure to be something dreadful." She began to stroke her husband's face. Lawrence took her hand and held it fast. "Nevertheless, I must ask it," he said. "Well," she said, resignedly, "go on." She lay looking at him with soft shining eyes, her lips curved in something far sweeter than a smile. "Are you going to be cruel to me?" she asked. "Was I ever cruel?" "No, no, dear old boy. Now go on." At this moment it seemed really ridiculous to Lawrence to ask what he had in mind to ask. But he kept to his resolve. "I want you to promise not to--well, promise to snub that Meramble. Don't be any more than barely civil to him. You know what I mean. It's pollution for a woman to be kind to such a man." Prudence raised her head and laughed. "Is that all?" she said. "Ask me something harder than that. What do I care for Mr. Meramble? Pshaw! I can give you that promise easily enough." "Oh, you will, then?" he asked, eagerly. "Certainly."