"Oh!" She moved Keegan's head gently away. "I thought I heard someone." Slipping to her feet she stared eagerly toward the door. Keegan straightened himself. He looked at her drowsily. "It's no one," she smiled. Her eyes covered him with tender interest. He thought of some picture of a saint--Saint Cecelia or someone like that. "Why don't you go up in George's room?" she asked. She gave him her hand as if to assist him in a comradely way to rise. He stood up slowly. "You don't know what you've done for me," he began, "you're so different ... so good." She smiled and made a pretense of assisting him further by passing her arm gently around him. "I don't know what it is," he murmured. He stopped. His heart was hurting him with longing. He was unclean. But this beautiful saint would cleanse him, purify him. She was a part of life he desired--the clean things. But he was afraid. How could he after last night, how could he dare? She would certainly misunderstand if he touched her. She would think he was a scoundrel. "Fanny," he whispered. She looked at him with intensely tender eyes as a mother might regard a forgiven child. He embraced her, his hands resting only lightly on her back. "Forgive me," he mumbled. "But everything's so rotten. I feel like such a cad after what I've done. You ... you make me almost happy again." His mind was pleasantly fogged. He was thinking of himself as a despicable sinner receiving mysterious absolution. She said nothing but let herself come closer. She was adroit and he remained unaware that she had pressed herself tautly against him. He was concerned entirely with the purity of his caress. He read in her eyes and flushed face a forgiveness, an absolution. Her grip on him that had grown firm was the grip of a woman raising him out of the Hell in which he had wallowed. His senses, deadened by debauch, failed to detect the pressure of her clinging. She could dare. An intensity came slowly into her nerves. She would like to move, to crush herself against him. But she managed to restrain herself. She began to weep. "Don't," he whispered. "You mustn't. I'm ... I'm not as bad as all that." She managed to say, "Oh ... I feel so sorry for you. It just hurts me to ... to think of you like that. Promise me you'll never again.... Please.... Promise me.... Promise me...." Her words, despite her, grew wild. She raised her eyes feverishly and, tightening her arms, pressed herself to him. The man's harmlessness had betrayed her. She continued to weep, "Promise me ... you'll never ... be bad like that again...." Her emotion reaching its depth sent a delicious sense through her. She embraced him for a moment. In the receding fog of her satisfied impulse she heard him answering, tears in his voice. "You're so sweet.... So wonderful. Oh, forgive me.... I'll never be bad again.... Forgive me...." 4 Judge Percival Smith was a fastidious gentleman who boasted of his age as a contrast to his virility.