“That’s moonshine, Medora. You’re not going to make anybody believe that; and don’t you try—else there’ll be the devil to pay. It was your fault—the fault of your character—because a woman and her character must be one. But I grant this; if we can’t go outside our characters, and our characters are us and control all we do and think, then, being yourself from no fault of your own, you’re not to blame in a sense. Then, again, that won’t wash either, because if nobody can do anything outside their characters, then nobody’s ever to blame in themselves for anything they do, and there’s no such thing as wickedness in the world. Which is nonsense and moonshine again, because we very well know the world’s full of wickedness. So it’s no good saying, or fooling yourself to think, that you’ve not been very wicked indeed, because you have. However, like a lot of bigger people than you, you’ve got less, so far, than you deserve, because the punishment never does fit the evil deed, any more than the reward fits the good one, except in fairy tales. In other words, Kellock, being what he is—a man of the highest possible conduct, with a frosty nature to help it—has saved your bacon so far. You know what I mean. Therefore, there’s a ray of hope—not very bright, in my opinion, still, a ray.” “Thank Heaven you think so,” said Medora. “It’s only my opinion, mind, and I may very likely be wrong; but I’m a man that sees hope very often where another cannot. A wonderful eye for hope I’ve got. And if your husband knew all the facts and heard—not that you’d been pixy-led, but that you was properly ashamed of your infamous, hard-hearted, senseless, worthless way of going on, and meant to do better for evermore—luck offering, and the Lord helping—if he heard that, it’s just on the cards he might give it a second thought. I don’t say he would. I wouldn’t in his case—not for a moment; but he’s himself—an amazingly large-minded man. So, out of regard for your mother, Medora, I’ll venture to touch the subject.” “I’ll bless your name for evermore if you do.” “Allow yourself no hope, however. You’ve got to think of Jordan Kellock, and I tell you frankly I wouldn’t move in this matter if I didn’t reckon he was utterly mistaken in his opinion of you.” “He is, he is, Mr. Knox! I’m far ways less than what he fancied.” “You are; but don’t waste your time eating dirt to me, though you ought to do it all round, no doubt, and heap ashes on your head.” “I know I ought; and Jordan’s going to see Ned on Monday evening, so if you, in your great wisdom, could talk to my husband first—” “I will do so,” promised Mr. Knox, and he kept his word. It happened, therefore, that when the hour arrived for the meeting of Kellock and Dingle, much had fallen out beyond the former’s knowledge.