"Is that the only reason?" "Yes, I think so." "Have you no--regrets?" "Sometimes. . . . I am not immune to shame. . . . I wonder whether you know what it cost me to come here." A dull flush mounted to his forehead, but he faced her steadily enough. "You saw me kicked out of a hotel by an Irish servant because I was not fit to be tolerated among reputable people. . . . And you did not pass by on the other side. . . . Under your clear eyes my spirit died a thousand shameful deaths while I went with you to your destination. . . . The contempt of the whole world burnt me; and your compassion drove every flame into me----" He checked himself, swallowed, forced a smile, and went on in his low, pleasant voice: "I am afraid I have been dramatic. . . . All I meant to say is that my humiliation, witnessed by you, is a heavier price to pay--a more painful reckoning with Fate, than I had really ever looked for." "I--I had no contempt for you," she faltered. "You could not escape it; but it is kind of you to say that." "You don't understand. I had no contempt. I was--it--the dread of harm to you--frightened me. . . . And afterward I was only so sorry for you--and wanted to--to help----" He nodded. "The larger charity," he said. "You may read all about it there in that Bible, but--the world takes it out in reading about it. . . . I do not mean to speak bitterly. . . . There is nothing wrong with me as far as the world goes--I mean _my_ world. . . . Only--in the other and real world there is--you. . . . You, who did not pass by on the other side; and to whom the Scriptures there are merely the manual which you practice--for the sake of Christ." "You think me better--far better than I am." "I know what you are. I know what it cost you to even let me lean on you, there in the glare of the electric light--there where men stood leering and sneering and misjudging you!--and my blood on your pretty gown----" "Oh--I did not think--care about that--or the men----" "You cared about them. It is a growing torture to you. Even in the generous flush of mercy you thought of it; you said you would never go back to that hotel. I knew why you said it. I knew what, even then, you suffered--what of fear and shame and outraged modesty. I know what you stood for, there in the street with a half-senseless crook hanging to your arm--tugging for a weapon which would have sent two more mongrels to hell----" "You shall not say that!" she cried, white and trembling. "You did not know what you were doing----" He interrupted: "'For they know not what they do.' . . . You are right. . . . We don't really know, any of us. But few, except such as you, believe it--few except such as you--and the Master who taught you. . . . And that is all, I think. . . . I can't thank you; I can't even try. . . . It is too close to melodrama now--not on your side, dear little lady!" He rose. "Are you--going?" "Yes." "Where?"