“I am in earnest,” he said. “And it is not preposterous. Can’t you realize that a time may come in a man’s life when just for his own soul’s sake he has got to prove to himself that he is not an utter skunk? It doesn’t matter what other people think. They can think what they damn’ well please. But he himself—the thing that goes with him always, that sleeps when he sleeps and wakes when he wakes—do you think he can afford to be out with that? By God, no! Life isn’t worth having under those conditions. I’d sooner die and be damned straight away.” He laughed upon the words, but it was a laugh of exceeding bitterness. And there came to Frances in that moment the conviction that what he said was right. No power on earth can ever compensate for the loss of self-respect. Somehow that passionate utterance of his went straight to her heart. If she had not forgiven him before, her forgiveness was now complete and generous. She saw in him in the hour of his repentance the man whom once she could have loved, and she was deeply moved thereby. “Are you satisfied?” he said. “Have I convinced you that I am playing the game—or trying to?” She met his eyes though she knew that her own were wet. “Yes, I am convinced,” she said. “I am satisfied.” “And what are you going to do?” he questioned. Very simply she made answer. “I will go to Tetherstones.” He drew a hard breath. “You’re not afraid?” “No,” she said. He put an urgent hand on her shoulder. “Frances,” he said, “you must make him understand.” “He will understand,” she said. He bent towards her. His voice came huskily. “It isn’t only—for myself,” he said. “You know that?” “I know,” she said. “I want to win your forgiveness,” he said, and there was appeal in the pressure of his hand. “Have I got that?” “Yes,” she said. “You are sure?” Voice and touch alike pleaded with her. She felt the tears welling to her eyes. “From my very heart,” she said. “Yes, I am sure.” She offered him both her hands, and he took and held them closely for a space, then abruptly he let them go. “You will never love me,” he said, “but it may please you some day to remember that you taught me how to love.” And with that he turned and walked away from her, not suffering himself to look back. She knew even as she watched him go that he would keep his word and that she would never see him again. Out of sheer pity it came to her to call him back, but a stronger impulse held her silent. She became aware very suddenly of the crumpled paper in her hand, and, as the solitude of the place came about her with his going, she spread it open once again and read. CHAPTER VIII THE PLACE OF SACRIFICE