"Must you," she said, looking him now full in the face, "must it be this? Have we not thrashed it out thoroughly enough already? I don't change, you know." He understood that she was appealing to his regard for their own especial relationship. But there was a note of control in her voice; he knew that now she would listen: "I've cared for Frank during a number of years. I know he's weak, impulsive, incredibly foolish. He's always been his own worst enemy. I know that the other day he wrote a most foolish letter----" "It was a letter beyond forgiveness," she said, her voice trembling. "Yes, I would give anything to have prevented it. I know that when he was in England before I pleaded for him, as I am doing now, and that by a thousand foolhardy actions he negatived anything that I could say for him. "I'm urging no defence for the things that he did, the shady, disreputable things. But he has come back now, I do verily believe, ready, even eager, to turn over a new leaf. I----" She interrupted him, smiling. "Yes. That letter----" "Oh, I know. But isn't it a very proof of what I say--would anyone but a foolhardy boy have done such a thing? Sheer bravado, hoping behind it all to be taken back to the fold--eager, at any rate, not to show a poor spirit, cowardice." "Over thirty now--old for a boy----" "In years, yes. But younger, oh! ages younger than that in spirit, in knowledge of the world, in everything that matters--I know," he went on more slowly, smiling a little, "that you've called me sentimentalist times without number--but really here I'm not urging you to anything from sentimental reasons. I'm not asking you to take him back and kill the fatted calf for him. "I'm asking nothing absurd--only that you, his relations, all that he has of kith and kin, should not be his enemies, should not drive him to desperation--and worse." "If you imagine," she said steadily, "that his fate is of the smallest concern to me you know me very little. I care nothing of what becomes of him. He and I have been enemies for many years now and a few words from you cannot change that." "I'm only asking you," he replied, "to give him a chance. See what you can make of him, instead of sending him into the other camp--use him even if you cannot care for him. There's fine stuff there in spite of his follies. The day might come, even now, when you will own yourself proud of him----" But she had caught him up, leaning forward a little, her voice now of a sharper turn. "The other camp? What other camp?" He caught the note of danger. "I only mean," he said, choosing now his words with the greatest care, "that if you turn Frank definitely, once and for all, from your doors, there may be others ready to receive him----" "His men and his women," she broke in scornfully; "don't I know them? I've not lived these years without knowing the raffish tenth-rate lot that failures like Frank Breton affect----"