She faced him with the facts, breathlessly, and in spite of herself accusingly,--and then waited for the explanation that would extenuate the apparent ugliness of his attitude toward her, and set all the world right for her again. As she looked into his face she felt that it must come. She noted compassionately how the shadows under the dark eyes had deepened; how weary the pose of the fine head; and for the moment she longed only to rest it on her breast again. Even as she spoke of the thing that had so tortured her it seemed insignificant in light of the fact that he was there beside her, within reach of her arms whenever she chose to hold them out to him. "I regret that the revelation of my private embarrassments should have been thrust upon you so suddenly," he said, when she had poured out the story to him. "My marriage has proved the most uncomfortable indiscretion that I ever committed; and unfortunately my indiscretions have been numberless as the well-known leaves of Vallombrosa." "You always said that Sheila was motherless," Nancy said. "It is simpler than stating that she is worse than motherless." "Why didn't you tell me you were married?" Collier Pratt smiled at her--kindly it seemed to Nancy. "It hadn't anything to do with _us_," he said. "I should never want to marry again--even if I were free. The thought is horrible to me. You mean a great deal to me. _Think_, if you doubt that and think again. I have had in this little front room of yours the only real moments of peace and happiness that I have had for years. I value them--you can not dream or imagine how much--but surely it is understood between us that our relation can not be anything but transitory. I am an artist with a way to make for my art: you are a working woman with a career, odd as it is," he smiled whimsically, "that you have chosen, and that you will pursue faithfully until some stalwart young man dissuades you from it, when you will take your place in your niche as wife and mother, and leave me one more beautiful memory." "Surely," Nancy said, "you know it isn't--like that." "What is it like then?" Nancy felt every sane premise, every eager hope and delicate ideal slipping beyond her reach as she faced his mocking, tender eyes. "It can't be that you believe you have been--fair with me," she faltered. "I don't think I have been unfair," he said, "I have made no protestations, you know." Nancy shut her eyes. Curious scraps of her early religious education came back to her. "You have partaken of my bread and wine," she said. "It wasn't exactly consecrated." "I think it was," she said faintly. "Oh! don't you understand that that isn't a way for a man to think or to feel about a woman like me?"