She had said to herself that it was unfair to condemn him unheard. She had replied to herself that she did not care enough about him either to condemn or to acquit. She had ended by the realization that, deny it as she might, the fact of condemnation remained; and she had inclined solely toward the attitude of impartial justice until, in the briefest possible time after receiving her message, Dyker had entered this room. Then, immediately, her mood had once more changed, as it was to change so often during the ensuing interview; she had left the bench and had become the prosecutor. Perhaps Dyker's appearance was in part to blame for this. She had, of course, not seen him since that summer parting; it is seldom pleasant for a woman to find that separation from her has left no scar upon an admirer, and it is always annoying to a district-attorney to detect no consciousness of guilt in the countenance of the accused; yet Dyker had come into her presence with a buoyant step and a ready smile. The pressure of campaigning had lessened, though it could not wholly check, the progress of his dissipations, and his face still flaunted the tokens of its former glory. His eyes were not noticeably more timid than of old, and his mouth was, as of old, hidden. Add to this the pleasure, still fresh, of his election, and the satisfaction of a man fancying himself just placed in a position to say "I told you so" to the woman he loves, and it will be seen that Magistrate Dyker, if not at his best, had been at least in a moment of expansion. And now she had said that she would not take his hand! He could scarcely believe his ears. "You don't want--I am afraid I do not understand you, Marian," he said. Her great brown eyes looked steadily into his puzzled gaze. "Sit down, please," she responded. Mechanically, he drew a deep wicker chair to the window, and obeyed her. She sat opposite him and, for fully a minute, while with galloping brain he watched her, she looked through the glass at crowded, shuffling Rivington Street. "It is simple enough, Wesley," she at last resumed. "Before I can think of renewing anything like my old friendly attitude toward you----" "Your friendly attitude!" "It was scarcely more than that. Before I can renew it, there is something that must be explained." Dyker's own attitude was still that of the average lover, and the average lover cannot see beyond his own shadow. "Oh,"--he was momentarily relieved and prepared, in consequence, to show a proper magnanimity--"you needn't explain, Marian! I knew you would find that I was right, and that this was no place for you. I appreciate perfectly how you feel: you have been disappointed and disillusioned, and it is like you handsomely to want to confess that you were wrong. But let's merely consider that done, and say no more about it."