When a woman employs her last weapon, her confession of unreason, and demands forgiveness, what can a man do but proclaim himself the worm that he is? We went through a pretty scene of reconciliation. "And now," said I, "what did Lackaday, in terms of plain fact, tell you down there?" She told me. Apparently he had given her a précis of his life's history amazingly on the lines of a concentrated military despatch. "Lady Auriol," said he, as soon as they were out of earshot, "you are here by some extraordinary coincidence. In a few hours you will be bound to hear all about me which I desired you never to know. It is best that I should tell you myself, at once." It was extraordinary what she had learned from him in those few minutes. He had gone on remorselessly, in his staccato manner, as if addressing a parade, which I knew so well, putting before her the dry yet vital facts of his existence. "I knew there was a woman--wife and children--what does it matter? I told you," she said. "But--oh God!" She smote her hands together hopelessly, fist into palm. "I never dreamed of anything like this." "I am in a position to give you chapter and verse for it all," said I. "Oh I know," she said, dejectedly, and the vivid flower that was Auriol, in a mood of dejection, suggested nothing more in the world than a drought-withered hybiscus--her colour had faded, the sweeping fulness of her drooped, her twenties caught the threatening facial lines of her forties--what can I say more? The wilting of a tropical bloom--that was her attitude--the sap and the life all gone. "Oh I know. There's nothing vulgar about it. It goes back into the years. But still ..." "Yes, yes, my dear," said I, quickly. "I understand." We were alone now on the terrace. Far away, a waiter hung over the balustrade, listening to the band playing in the Park below. But for the noise of the music, all was still on the breathless August air. Presently she drew her palms over her face. "I'm dog-tired." "That abominable night journey," said I, sympathetically. "I sat on a _strapontin_ in the corridor, all night," she said. "But, my dear, what madness!" I cried horrified, although in the war she had performed journeys compared with which this would be the luxury of travel. "Why didn't you book a _coupé-lit_, even a seat, beforehand?" She smiled dismally. "I only made up my mind yesterday morning. I got it into my head that you knew everything there was to be known about Andrew Lackaday." "But how did you get it?" My question was one of amazement. No man had more out-rivalled an oyster in incommunicativeness.