“It seems I've been the subject of a lot of talk during the last two days, and I have been saddled with a matter for which I am in no way responsible, though it appears to reflect on me quite as much as if I were.” “Really, Mr. Oakley”--began Constance, scenting danger ahead. But her visitor was in no mood to temporize. “One moment, please,” he said, hastily. “You have heard the story from Mr. Ryder.” “I have heard it from others as well.” “It has influenced you--” “No, I won't say that,” defiantly. She was not accustomed to being catechised. “At least it has caused you to seriously doubt the wisdom of an acquaintance,” blurted Oakley. “You are very unfair,” rising with latent anger. “You will greatly oblige me by sitting down again.” And Constance, astonished beyond measure at his tone of command, sank back into her chair with a little smothered gasp of surprise. No one had ever ventured to speak to her like that before. It was a new experience. “We've got to finish this, you know,” explained Dan, with one of his frankest smiles, and there was a genial simplicity about his smile which was very attractive. Constance, however, was not to be propitiated, but she kept her seat. She was apprehensive lest Oakley would do something more startling and novel if she attempted to cut short the interview. She stole a glance at him from under her long lashes. He was studying the carpet, apparently quite lost to the enormity of his conduct. “You have heard their side of the story, Miss Emory. I want you to hear mine. It's only fair, isn't it? You have heard that my father is an ex-convict?” “Yes,” with a tinge of regret. “That he is a murderer?” plunging ahead mercilessly. “Yes.” “And this is influencing you?” “I suppose it is,” helplessly. “It would naturally. It was a great shock to us all.” “Yes,” agreed Dan, “I can understand, I think, just how you must look at it.” “We are very, very sorry for you, Mr. Oakley. I want to explain my manner last night. The whole situation was so excessively awkward. I am sure you must have felt it.” “I did,” shortly. “Oh, dear, I hope you didn't think me unkind!” “No.” Then he added, a trifle wearily, “It's taken me all this time to realize my position. I suppose I owe you some sort of an apology. You must have thought me fearfully thick-skinned.” He hoped she would say no, but he was disappointed. Her conscience had been troubling her, and she was perfectly willing to share her remorse with him, since he was so ready to assume a part of it. She was as conventional as extreme respectability could make her, but she had never liked Oakley half so well. She admired his courage. He didn't whine. His very stupidity was in its way admirable, but it was certainly too bad he could not see just how impossible he was under the circumstances.