At last he hinted something of what was in his mind to Viola Blixworth. He talked in abstract terms, with an air of studying human nature, not of discussing any concrete case; he was still a little pompous over it, and still entirely engrossed in his own feelings. His preoccupation was to prove that he deserved no ridicule, since fate, and not merely folly, had made him its unwilling plaything. She heard him with unusual seriousness, in an instant divining the direction of his thoughts; and she fastened on the mood, turning it to what she wanted. 'That should make you tolerant towards Mrs. Trevalla,' she suggested, as they walked together by the fountains. 'I suppose so, yes. It leaves us both slaves of something too strong for us.' She passed by the affected humility that defaced his smile; she never expected too much, and was finding in him more than she had hoped. 'If you've any allowance for her, any gentleness towards her----' 'I feel very little anger now.' 'Then tell her so, Mortimer. Oh, I don't mean go to her. On all accounts you'd better not do that.' (Her smile was not altogether for Mervyn here; she spared some of it for her duties and position as an aunt.) 'But write to her.' 'What should I say?' The idea was plainly new to him. 'Do you mean that I'm to forgive her?' 'I wouldn't put it quite like that, Mortimer. That would be all right if you were proposing to--renew the arrangement. But I suppose you're not?' He shook his head decisively. As a woman Lady Blixworth was rather sorry to see so much decision; it was her duty as an aunt to rejoice. 'Couldn't you manage to convey that it was nobody's fault in particular? Or something like that?' He weighed the suggestion. 'I couldn't go quite so far,' he concluded, with a judicial air. 'Well, then, that the mistake was in trying it at all? Or in being in a hurry? Or--or that perhaps your manner----?' 'No, I don't think there was anything wrong with my manner.' 'Could you say you understood her feelings--or, at any rate, allowed for them?' 'Perhaps I might say that.' 'At any rate you could say something comforting.' She put her arm through his. 'She's miserable about you, I know. You can say something?' 'I'll try to say something.' 'I know you'll say it nicely. You're a gentleman, Mortimer.' She could not have used a better appeal, simple as it sounded. All through the affair--all through his life, it might be said--he had been a gentleman; he had never been consciously unkind, although he had often been to Trix unconsciously unbearable. Viola Blixworth put him on his honour by the name he reverenced.