“No,” he answered. “The fault was really mine. My initial mistake was in confusing the false fire with the true. It--was not love I had for Nesta. And I found it out when it was too late. We were poles apart in everything, and instead of trying to make it easier for her, trying to understand her and to lead her into our ways of looking at things. I only stormed at her. It roused all that was worst in me to see her trailing our name in the dust, throwing her dignity to the winds, craving for nothing other than amusement and excitement. I’m not trying to excuse myself. There _was_ no excuse for me. In my way, I was as culpable and foolish as she. And when the crash came--when I found her deliberately entertaining in my house, against my express orders, a man who ought to have been kicked out of any decent society, why, I let go. The Tormarin temper had its way with me. I shall never forgive myself for that. I frightened her, terrified her. I think I must have been half mad. And then--well, you know what followed. She rushed away and, before anyone could find her or help her, she had killed herself--thrown herself into the Seine. Quite what happened between leaving here and her death we were never able to find out. Apparently since her marriage with me, her sister had gone to Paris, unknown to her, and had taken a situation as _dame de compagnie_ to some Frenchwoman, and Nesta, though she followed from Italy to Paris, failed to find her there. At least that is what Margherita Valdi told me in the letter announcing Nesta’s death. Then she must have lost heart. So you see, morally I am responsible for that poor, reckless child’s death.” “Oh, no, no, Blaise! I don’t see that”--pitifully. “Don’t you? I do--very clearly. And that was why, when I found myself growing to care for you, I tried to keep away.” He felt in his pocket and produced a plain gold wedding ring. On the inside were engraved the initials “B.T. and N.E.,” and a date. “That was my talisman. Alargherita sent it back to me when she wrote telling me of Nesta’s death. Whenever I felt my resolution weakening, I used to take it out and have a look at it. It was always quite effective in thrusting me back into my proper place in the scheme of things--that is, outside any other woman’s life.” There was an inexpressible bitterness in his tones, and Jean drew a little nearer to him, her heart overflowing with compassion. He looked down at her, and smiled a thought ironically. “But now--you’ve beaten me.” His lips brushed her hair. “I’m glad to be beaten, belovedest... I knew, that day at Montavan, what you might come to mean to me. And I intended never to see you again, but just to take that one day for remembrance. I felt that, having made such an utter hash of things, having spoiled one woman’s life and been, indirectly, the cause of her death, I was not fit to hold another woman’s happiness in my hands.” Jean rubbed her cheek against his shoulder.