"Why, yes, of course. I'll see that you're fixed up comfortably and then I'll get out." "Oh, you mustn't leave me!" she cried in a panic. "I couldn't stay in that awful place alone." She drew a little nearer to him as if demanding his protection. A wave of tenderness swept over him. She was just a girl, after all, he reflected, and if it were not for what had happened a moment before the most natural thing in the world would be to take her in his arms and comfort her. "I--I won't leave you--I'll stay near you," he stammered. But as they trudged along together through the dark his chagrin returned in full force. Mrs. Cortlandt maintained a distressing silence, and he could not see her face. Presently he began to plead brokenly for forgiveness, stumbling in the effort not to offend her further and feeling that he was making matters worse with every word he uttered. For a long time she made no reply, but at last she said: "Do you think I ought ever to see you again after this?" "I suppose not," said Kirk, miserably. "I won't believe," she went on, "that you could have taken me for the kind of woman who--" "No, no!" he cried, in an anguish of self-reproach. "I was a fool--" "No," she said, "I don't--I couldn't bear to think that. Perhaps I was partly to blame--but I didn't think--I ought to have known that no man can really be trusted. But I thought our friendship was so beautiful, and now you've spoiled it." "Don't say that!" exclaimed Kirk. "Say you'll forgive me some time." But instead of answering him directly she proceeded in the same strain, probing his wounded self-respect to the quick, making his offence seem blacker every moment. Although he assured her over and over that he had simply followed the irresponsible, unaccountable impulse of a moment--that he had regarded her only as the best of friends, and respected her more than he could say, she showed him no mercy. The melancholy, regretful tone she adopted was ten times worse than anger, and by the time they reached the inn where they had dined he was sunk in the depths of self-abasement. If he had been less preoccupied with his own remorse he might have reflected that Edith's attitude, especially as she did not expressly withhold the prospect of ultimate pardon, established a closer bond between them than ever before. But there was no room in his mind for such a thought. In reply to his knock an old woman came to the door and sleepily admitted them. Edith stood for a moment on the threshold, then, seeing that he made no motion to accompany her, she said good-night, and, quietly entering, closed the door behind her. Kirk experienced a sudden desire to escape. To remain where he was simply prolonged his humiliation. Instinctively he felt that, if he could only get away where he could view the matter in an every-day light, it would cease to trouble him. But evidently he could not desert Edith. He sat down upon the doorstep and gave himself up to bitter thoughts.