As Christopher set down his glass and turned to clasp his beloved in his arms, he realized that there was a curious change in her face, a subtle, an almost indistinguishable change--the sweet radiance had gone. It was the word _wife_ that had stabbed Penelope with unforgettable memories and brought back her impulse to confess. Once more she tried to tell the story of that tragic steamboat, but Christopher firmly and good-naturedly refused to listen. Whatever she had done, her life had been a hundred times finer and nobler than his. Not that he had any great burden on his conscience, but--well--With a chivalrous idea of balancing scores, he mentioned that there had been one or two things that--er--and his embarrassment grew. Penelope's eyes caressed him. "I'm so glad, Chris, if there is something for me to forgive. Is it--is it a woman story?" "Well, yes." "Tell me. I won't misjudge you, dear," she spoke confidently, although a shadow of pain flitted across her face. Then he began to tell of a hotel flirtation--a young woman he had met one night in Philadelphia. She wasn't so very pretty, but--her husband had treated her like the devil and--she was very unhappy and--they had rather a mad time together. Christopher spoke in brief, business-like sentence's as if desiring to get through with a painful duty, but Penelope pressed him for details. "What was her name--her first name?" "Katherine." "Did you have supper with her--did she drink?" "Yes." "Was she--how shall I say it?--an alluring woman? Did she have a pretty figure?" The soldier looked at his sweetheart in surprise and, without answering, he struck a match and meditatively followed the yellow flame as it consumed the wood. Penelope watched his well-shaped, well-kept hands. "Did she?" "I--I suppose so. What difference does that make? Do you mind if I smoke?" "Of course not." She took a cigarette from his silver case. "I'll have one with you--from the same match! _Voila!_" She inhaled deeply and blew out a grey cloud. "Tell me more about Katherine." His frown deepened. "Poor woman! She was reckless. I am sure she had never done a thing like this before. I hadn't either. I don't mean that I've been an angel, Pen, but--" he paused, then, with a flash of self-justification: "I give you my word of honor, in the main I have not done that sort of thing." She caught his hand impulsively. "I know you haven't. I'm so glad. Now I _will_ drink to--to you." She rose and stood before him, a lithe young creature vibrant with life. "Touch your glass to mine. My dear boy! My Christopher!" They drank together. Then Herrick resumed his explanation. "I must tell you a little more, darling. You see I was sorry for this woman, her story was so pathetic. I wanted to help her, if I could, not to harm her. So I suggested that we each make a pledge to the other--" He was intensely in earnest, but Penelope's eyes were now dancing in mockery. "Oh you reformer! You ridiculous boy!" she laughed.