"I knew she didn't care," he said in a level, passionless voice. "But I loved her. From the first go-off I saw she was different to other women. And I thought--I know I'm only a rough fellow--but I thought perhaps in time ... I'm not up to much, but I would have made her a good husband--and at any rate, I would have taken her away from--her father. He said she was willing. I--I tried to believe him. He wanted to get rid of her--and--I wanted to have her. That was the long and the short of it. We settled it between us.... She hadn't a chance in that house. I thought I'd give her another--a home--where she was safe. She had never had a mother to tell her things. She had never had any upbringing at that French school. She had no women friends. She had never known a good woman, except her old nurse, till I brought her to you, Mary. I told her you were good and gentle and loving, and would be a friend to her; and that I had known you all my life, and she might trust you." "She never liked me," said Mary. It seemed to her that she must defend herself. Against what? Against whom? "If she had only confided in you," he said. "I knew she was in trouble, but I could not make out what it was. She was such a child, and I seemed a long way off her. I took her to plays and things after I had seen them first, to be sure they were all right; and she would cheer up for a little bit--she liked the performing dogs. I had thought of taking her there again; but she always sank back into low spirits. And I knew that sometimes young girls do feel shy about being married--it's a great step--a lottery--that is what it is, a lottery--so I thought it would all come right in time. I never thought. I never guessed." Jos' voice broke. "I see now I helped to push her into it--but--I didn't know.... If only you had known that last afternoon, and could have pleaded with her ... if only you had known, and could have held her back--my white lamb, my little Elsa." He ground his heel against the polished floor. There was a long silence. Then he got up and went away. * * * * * It was not until the end of July that Mary saw him again. She heard nothing of him. She only knew that he had left London. He came in one evening late, and Mary's aunt discreetly disappeared after a few minutes' desultory conversation. He looked worn and aged, but he spoke calmly, and this time he noticed Mary's existence. "You look pulled down," he said kindly. "Has the season been too much for you?" "It is not that," she said. "I have been distressed because an old friend of mine is in trouble." He looked at her and saw that she had suffered. A great compunction seized him. He took her hand and kissed it. "You are the best woman in the world," he said. "Don't worry your kind heart about me. I'm not worth it." Then he moved restlessly away from her, and began turning over the knick-knacks on the silver table.