Something in his tone reached her. She turned slowly and looked at him. His face was very pale, and his eyes looked drawn and strained; but except for this she saw no traces about him of the recent struggle. He met her gaze with a faint smile. “I’ve had all the nonsense knocked out of me for to-night,” he said. “But I suppose I’m damned lucky to be here at all. That fellow has the strength of an ox. The back of my head is like a jelly, damn him!” “I thought he meant to kill you,” she said dully. “He did,” said Rotherby. “You saved my life.” “Did I?” Her look fell away from him. “It wasn’t for your sake,” she said, after a moment. “It was for his.” “I gathered that,” said Rotherby. “That’s what makes you so wonderful.” “I don’t feel wonderful,” she said. He leaned towards her. “Don’t cry!” he said again. “You are wonderful. And you’ve made me feel a cur of the very first magnitude. That’s something to accomplish, isn’t it?” “I don’t know,” she said. “I wasn’t thinking of you.” “You’re worn out,” he said. “Have some food, and I’ll take you back. You’re going to trust me, aren’t you? I swear I won’t let you down after this. You’re not afraid of me?” “Oh no, I am not afraid of you,” she said. In a detached, impersonal fashion, out of the depths of her despair, she wondered how he could imagine that he or his actions had the slightest importance for her. Could anything in the world really matter after this cataclysm? He might have been a total stranger, ministering to her, so small was his significance now. But she was in a vague fashion grateful for his kindness, and when he brought her food, she forced herself to eat lest he should think her unappreciative. It revived her also, lifting the awful weight of inertia from her senses, so that after a while she was capable of coherent thought again. “That’s better,” Rotherby said presently. “Look here! You won’t believe me, but I’m most damnably sorry for all this.” “I do believe you,” she said, with a wan smile. “Oh, I don’t mean the hammering,” he said. “I’m actually thinking of you for a change. I’ve been a rotter all my life, and I don’t count. But you—you’re straight. I always knew you were. And I’ve found out something more about you to-night. I’ve found out why you turned me down.” He got up abruptly, and began to walk about the room. “I half-guessed it long ago. I know it now. You love this hairy-heeled chap who nearly killed me to-night. You needn’t bother to deny it. You love him and he loves you. And yet—and yet—you let him believe—that of you! Good God! There isn’t another woman on earth would have done it.” “I had to do it,” Frances said with simplicity. “He would have killed you.”