"She never would have forgiven him," Nurse Ella had declared, in crisp settlement of the point at issue. "No young wife would forgive a young husband who behaved like that. So it may be the cleverest novel in the language, but it isn't true to life." Whereupon Gwynneth, who had been defending a masterpiece with laudable spirit, walked some yards in silence. "Are you sure that it matters how people behave," she then inquired, "if you really love them?" "How they behave?" echoed her friend. "Why, Gwynneth, of course! Nothing does matter except behaviour." "It wouldn't to me," Gwynneth exclaimed, almost through her teeth. "But surely what one does is everything!" "Not in love," averred Gwynneth, whose convictions were few but firm; "and those two are more in love than any other couple I know in fiction or real life. No; you love people for what they are, not for what they do." Nurse Ella laughed outright. "That may be good metaphysics," said she, "but it's shocking common-sense! Our actions are the only possible test of our character, as its fruit is the only test of a tree." In Gwynneth's eyes burnt wondrous fires, and on her cheeks; and her breath was coming very quickly. But most persons look straight ahead as they walk and talk, and between these two fell the kindly fog besides. "Suppose you loved somebody," the young girl cried at last; "and suppose you suddenly discovered he had once done something dreadful--unspeakable. Would that alter your feeling towards him?" "It could never fail to do so, Gwynneth." "It would not alter mine!" Nurse Ella turned her head. But in the road the fog seemed thicker than in the gardens. And, apart from its vigour, Gwynneth's tone had sounded impersonal enough. "I believe it would," her friend persisted, "when the time came." "And I know that it would not," said Gwynneth, half under her breath and half through her teeth. "Well, Gwynneth," said Nurse Ella, with a laugh, "we were evidently born to differ. In my view that would be the one sort of excuse for changing one's mind about a man--whereas you see others!" "But I am not talking about one's mind," cried Gwynneth; "the feeling I mean, the feeling those two have in the book, lies infinitely deeper than the mind." "And no crime could alter it?" "Not if he atoned--not if the rest of his life were one long atonement." "But, Gwynneth, that would make all the difference." Gwynneth walked on in silence. She was reconsidering her own last words. "Atonement or no atonement," she exclaimed at length, "it would make no difference--if I loved the man. Atonement or no atonement!" repeated Gwynneth defiantly. Nurse Ella had a passion for the last word, but they were come to her corner, and there was Gwynneth glowing through the fog, her eyes alight, her cheeks flaming, a new being in the puzzled eyes of her friend.