His look asks for an explanation of her forced yet commonplace analogy, and she goes on. “In the matter of marriage settlements for instance, both sides may be perfectly at one as to the disposition of the money; and yet the law insists on finding flaws and making difficulties.” “I suppose it does.” “Some hitch of the kind is detaining my uncle and Rupert.” She cannot be more uncomfortably conscious that the explanation is superfluous and uncalled for, than is he that her trite reflections and unasked-for introduction of her financial affairs are the stairs by which she is climbing to some aimed-at goal. In her next sentence she attains it. “Talking of marriages reminds me----” Even when the door to which she has been looking is reached, it seems hard to open. “Yes?” “I have been thinking that I owe you an apology.” “For what?” “For the spirit in which I received a very kind suggestion you made.” “What suggestion?” It is needless to say that he knows as well as she what was the contemned overture; yet--for Love is by no means a kindly god--he cannot deny himself the luxury of seeing her run up the red pennon of shame into her cheeks. But when he notes what uphill work it is to her to give the asked-for explanation, and how conscientiously she does it, his heart smites him with an acuteness that brings its own retribution. “To give me a wedding present.” “I was sorry that I had put you to the pain of refusing.” His tone is very gentle, and not in the least rancorous. “Do you know why I refused?” “I had a twinge of my old misgivings.” For a moment--so complete is her innocence of the motive hinted at--she looks at sea. Then his meaning flashes painfully upon her. He supposes that from the causer of Bill’s death no member of Bill’s family can bring him or herself to accept a gift. “Whatever your misgiving was, it was wrong,” she says, the eager desire to reassure him giving her a momentary glibness in conspicuous contrast to the lameness of her former speech. “You could not possibly have guessed the real reason; it would have required a more than human intuition.” “Are you going--are you able to tell it me?” “Yes, now.” She pauses a moment, as if to collect herself, and set her facts in order. “I must explain to you,” she says, “that my marriage is not like other marriages.” “I do not understand.” It would be better taste, as he feels, to allow her to tell her tale to its end, without remark; but she makes a slight halt, and the delay is unendurable. “I mean that it is no occasion for festivity or present-giving. I intended no slight to you; I only saw that you misunderstood.” This time he has himself better in hand, for no comment follows; but she, verifying by one snatched look the miserable mystification of his face, hurries out her next words. “It is the carrying out of a bargain made almost further back than memory can reach.”