"You didn’t think I was that sort," she said, guessing at what was in his mind. "Lexie’s not, but I’m different. I’m not a lady. It wasn’t only because I wanted clothes and jewelry, or because I was hungry that—that it happened. I _did_ hate going without things. But it was because I met a man who made me feel—like jelly. If he’d had nothing a year I would have gone to the devil with him just the same.... I’m telling you all this to show you why we can’t be friends, although I know you’re ever so kind." "Can we not? Mrs. Lambert was your friend." "I can’t think why." Tears came into her eyes. "There aren’t many women like her.... You loved her, didn’t you?" "I loved her very dearly. More than she loved me. Though she loved me as much as I deserved," he added quickly. "And she loved her husband. I know. I think he must be a pig! ... Why do we love things that are bad for us, and men that don’t care for us? ... You would have married her, wouldn’t you?" "That was what I desired more than anything else," he rejoined in a voice full of regret. This unreserved talk did not strike either of them as strange. Chalfont was usually sphynx-like about his innermost feelings, but with Maggy it seemed unnecessary to hide them. It did him good to unburden his heart to her. Maggy not only inspired confidence, she attracted it. It gave her a double hold on sympathy. "She would have been ’my lady’ then," she said thoughtfully. "What a draw that would be to a lot of women—the women who don’t put love first. It’s when we love that we don’t think what we get by it.... If the Earl of the Scilly Isles came crawling all the way from Scotland and wanted me to marry him I wouldn’t leave Woolf." Chalfont lost sight of her amazing geography in the surprise he felt at the name she mentioned. "Woolf! What Woolf?" he stared. "Fred Woolf," she said with a touch of pride. "He owns the _Jockey’s Weekly_ and Primus cars. You must have heard of Biretta, his racehorse." "Oh!" Chalfont was incapable of more than the exclamation. He knew all about Woolf. Sudden pity for Maggy took hold of him. He could not run the man down; he could not tell her that Woolf’s name stank in the nostrils of decent-minded men; that even the men who fraternized with him took care to keep their womenfolk out of his reach. He could not tell her of Woolf’s shady reputation on the turf, at the card table, and in the city. He saw that it would be useless to do so, and also cruel. "You’ve met him, haven’t you?" she asked. "I’ve seen him at race-meetings and—and once at a club to which I belong." She nodded. "Fred goes everywhere." Chalfont did not pursue the subject. "I must go now," said Maggy. "Good-by.... Oh, I forgot to thank you for the roses." She colored, remembering the fate they had suffered. "I’m glad you liked them. They were Mrs. Lambert’s favorites." "Oh, were they? If I’d known that I would have got some instead of the wreath I sent."