She said nothing; the fierce bitterness in his voice had made him seem older suddenly, as though, in this portion of his journey, be had spent many, many years. "I must cut it short--you'll have had enough of this. I couldn't stand it. I left London and went abroad. After that, what didn't I do? I was everywhere, I did everything. Sometimes I was straight, sometimes I wasn't. I was always bitter, wild with fury when I thought of that old woman--of her complacency, sitting there and striking down all the poor devils that had been less fortunate than she. All those years abroad I nourished that anger and, at last, when I thought that I'd been abroad long enough, that people would have forgotten, perhaps, and forgiven, I came back. I came back to be revenged on my grandmother and to re-establish myself. I'd got some money, enough for a little annuity, and I was careful now--I wasn't going to make any mistakes this time." He laughed bitterly. "One doesn't learn much with age. What a fool I was! I've got the reputation I had before, whether I'm good or bad. It would all be hopeless--utterly hopeless--if it weren't for one thing----" She looked up, and as she glanced at him, could feel the furious beating of her heart. "I'd go back at once--I've almost gone back already--not abroad, that never again for long--but back to my friends, the unfortunates--" He laughed. "They're anxious to have me. They'll welcome me. I can have my cards and the rest then, with no one to object or to lecture--and I'll be done for quite nicely, completely done for." Then he pulled himself together, squared his shoulders. "But one thing keeps me," he said. "Something's happened in the last few weeks--I've met somebody----" "Yes," she said almost in a whisper. "Somebody who's made it worth while for me to fight on a bit." She could feel his agitation: his voice, although he tried very hard to control it, was shaking. Then he laughed, raised his voice and caught and held her eyes with his. "But there, Miss Rand. I've talked a fearful lot, only I wanted to tell you--I had to tell you. And now--if you feel--that you'd rather not know me, you've only got to say so." She laughed a little unsteadily. "Thank you for taking me into your confidence. You shall never regret it. I'm glad you're going to hold on, and, after all, we're all doing that more or less." "It's done me a world of good talking like this. It's what I've been wanting for months." She quieted her emotion. Looking out into the stars she knew that she believed every word that he had said. She thought that she valued Truth above every other quality; the directness that there was in Truth; its honesty and clarity. He might not always be honest with her, but she would never forget that he had, on this night, at least, spoken no falsehood. Life--her work, her surroundings, Portland Place, her home--this was full of falsehood and deceit and muddle. Here, this evening, at last, was honesty.