“Cutting up,” Ida Barton answered with a smile. “We’re the village cut-ups, you know,” was Lee Barton’s assurance. * * * * * That evening, the evening’s engagement cancelled, found the two, in a big chair, in each other’s arms. “Sonny sails to-morrow noon,” she announced casually and irrelevant to anything in the conversation. “He’s going out to the Malay Coast to inspect what’s been done with that lumber and rubber company of his.” “First I’ve heard of his leaving us,” Lee managed to say, despite his surprise. “I was the first to hear of it,” she added. “He told me only last night.” “At the dance?” She nodded. “Rather sudden, wasn’t it?” “Very sudden.” Ida withdrew herself from her husband’s arms and sat up. “And I want to talk to you about Sonny. I’ve never had a real secret from you before. I didn’t intend ever to tell you. But it came to me to-day, out in the Kanaka Surf, that if we passed out, it would be something left behind us unsaid.” She paused, and Lee, half-anticipating what was coming, did nothing to help her, save to girdle and press her hand in his. “Sonny rather lost his . . . his head over me,” she faltered. “Of course, you must have noticed it. And . . . and last night, he wanted me to run away with him. Which isn’t my confession at all . . . ” Still Lee Barton waited. “My confession,” she resumed, “is that I wasn’t the least bit angry with him—only sorrowful and regretful. My confession is that I rather slightly, only rather more than slightly, lost my own head. That was why I was kind and gentle to him last night. I am no fool. I knew it was due. And—oh, I know, I’m just a feeble female of vanity compounded—I was proud to have such a man swept off his feet by me, by little me. I encouraged him. I have no excuse. Last night would not have happened had I not encouraged him. And I, and not he, was the sinner last night when he asked me. And I told him no, impossible, as you should know why without my repeating it to you. And I was maternal to him, very much maternal. I let him take me in his arms, let myself rest against him, and, for the first time because it was to be the for-ever last time, let him kiss me and let myself kiss him. You . . . I know you understand . . . it was his renunciation. And I didn’t love Sonny. I don’t love him. I have loved you, and you only, all the time.” She waited, and felt her husband’s arm pass around her shoulder and under her own arm, and yielded to his drawing down of her to him. “You did have me worried more than a bit,” he admitted, “until I was afraid I was going to lose you. And . . . ” He broke off in patent embarrassment, then gripped the idea courageously. “Oh, well, you know you’re my one woman. Enough said.” She fumbled the match-box from his pocket and struck a match to enable him to light his long-extinct cigar.