She stared into my eyes across the counter with frightened fascination. I knew that I was acting like a brute and I despised myself. I had hardly meant to ask her the last question--it had slipped out. While we gazed at one another there drifted through my memory all the scenes of that day at Richmond--the gaiety of it, and the hunger with which she had clutched me to her as we punted back in the dark. I understood what this little bit of love must mean to her after her experience of disillusion. “No, I have not told him. I daren’t. I’m afraid to lose him. Oh, Dante, don’t tell him; it’s my one last chance to be good.” “But you’ve got to tell him, Kitty. If his love’s worth anything, he’ll forgive you. He’d be sure to find out after marriage.” “I don’t care about marriage,” she whispered desperately. “Even then, you ought to tell him.” A customer came into the shop. We tumbled from our height of emotion. It was another example of how reality makes all things prosaic. She had to compose herself, and go and serve him. He had come to admire her and showed a tendency to dawdle. His purchase was the excuse for his presence. I had an opportunity to watch her--how charmingly fresh she looked and how girlish. And yet she was three years older than myself--that seemed incredible. At last the customer went. “Kitty, I feel I’ve been a horrid beast to you--it’s so often like that when one speaks the truth. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I want to see you happy. I’ll not interfere. You must do what you feel to be right about it.” And with that I left her. The Bantam was rowing in the college crew that summer. What with training, going to bed early, and keeping up with his work, I saw little of him. The night before the races he came into my room. He looked brilliantly healthy--lean and tanned. “Are you alone?” “You can see I am. What’s the trouble?” He sank into a chair and grinned at me. “It’s all up. I’ve been an awful ass.” “How?” “I wrote two letters; one to the widow at Torquay and the other to the actress. They were nice friendly letters, but far too personal. I put ’em in the wrong envelopes.” “And they’ve sent them back with bitter complaints against your infidelity. Poor old Bantam!” “They haven’t. They’re keeping them as proof. They’ve both struck out the same line of action and talk about a breach of promise suit. They’re both coming to see me to-morrow, and they’re sure to meet. There’ll be a gay old row, and I shall get kicked out of Lazarus.” I whistled.