"Have you _quite_ finished?" said McTaggart. "Because, if so, I've a question to ask." He spoke slowly, for his anger, past a certain phase, touched the danger mark at freezing point. He had reached it now. "We will set aside _your_ idea of _my_ conduct," he smiled grimly--"or the reason you choose to set yourself up as a judge. What I can't quite gather from your talk is why--if you were so damned sure"--a slight flush rose to his face--"that Jill was ... well, fond of me--you promptly asked her to marry _you_? It's a little confused--your argument." Bethune drew back sharply. Across his white, angry face a look of pain and perplexity shot. He saw that McTaggart's nimble mind had caught at the first obvious excuse, and yet with all his honest heart he knew the purity of his intentions. "I didn't mean to," he blurted it out. "But I found her crying--and lost my head. The servant showed me in by mistake. She was sitting there in that back room, her head buried in her hands--and I couldn't stand it--damn it all!" At the memory, unconsciously, the tears rose in his brown eyes. "You'd gone away, without a word--and--loving her ... I understood. "I knew she thought she had lost you again--that you'd gone back to your London life. She's pretty plucky--but, after all, she's only a girl!" his voice softened. "It must be precious lonely there--boxed up with that Suffragette mother--and so"--the colour flooded his face, creeping up to the roots of his hair--"I thought perhaps--it might ... comfort a bit--to know what one man thought of her." A short silence fell between them. "And she refused you?" McTaggart, white and tight-lipped, thrust aside a momentary twinge of shame that cut across his secret triumph. Cruelly he went on: "Women generally know what they want. You can take that--from _my_ experience!" Bethune winced at the stab. But his anger had spent itself. Now he felt old and tired, oddly ashamed for his friend. "Yes," he answered quietly. "Jill's not a girl to love twice." And in this simple sentence he showed the depth of his respect for her. But the words, unintentionally uttered, stung McTaggart to the quick. "Unlike myself!" he said with a sneer. Bethune moved toward the door. On the threshold he turned and passed a hand wearily over his brow. "You're going to her?" He jerked his head with a warning gesture to the clock. "Yes." McTaggart never turned, but Bethune still hesitated. He was fighting hard against himself--a bitter battle of wounded pride; the picture of Jill in his mind, her grey eyes wet with tears. Suddenly he wheeled round. "For God's sake, Peter," he cried--(the old familiar name slipped out, for habit is hard to break)--"if you care for her--tell her so!" The door slammed behind his back. McTaggart sat as if turned to stone, elbows propped upon the table, staring out into space.