“You do not need to apologize, Miss Colton. What you told me was probably true enough.” The conventional answer to this would have been a half-hearted denial of my statement. I presume I expected something of the sort. But this girl was not conventional. “Yes,” she said, thoughtfully, “I think it was. If I had not thought so I should not have said it. But that makes no difference. You and I are strangers, almost, and I had no right to speak as I did. I am impulsive, I know it, and I often do and say things on impulse which I am sorry for afterward. I offended you.” “Oh no, no,” I put in, hurriedly. She had offended me, but this frank confession touched me more than the offense had hurt. She was doing a hard thing and doing it handsomely. “Yes, I offended you,” she repeated, firmly. “I have considered the matter a good deal since then, and it seems to me that you were right to feel offended. You had been very kind to me on several occasions and I had been your”--with a half smile--“your guest that day. I should not have hurt your feelings. Will you accept my apology?” “Why, yes, of course, since you insist, Miss Colton.” “Thank you.” She was turning to go; and I could not let her go thus. Although she had apologized for speaking her thought she had not retracted the thought itself. I was seized with a desire for justification in her eyes. I wanted to explain; forgetting for the moment that explanations were impossible. “Miss Colton,” I said, impulsively. “Yes?” “May I--may I say a word?” “Certainly, if you wish.” She turned again and faced me. “Miss Colton, I--I--” I began, and paused. “Well?” she said, patiently, “What is it?” “Miss Colton,” I blundered on, “you should not have apologized. You were right. Your estimate of me was pretty nearly correct. I realized that when you gave it and I have been realizing it ever since. I deserved what I got--perhaps. But I should not wish you to think--that is, I--well, I had reasons, they seemed to me reasons, for being what I was--what I am. I doubt if they were altogether good reasons; I am inclined now to think they were not. But I had come to think them good. You see, I--I--” I stopped, face to face with the fact that I could not give those reasons to her or any one else. She was looking at me expectantly, and with, so it seemed to me, an expression of real, almost eager interest. I faltered, tried to go on, and then surrendered, absolutely, to the hopelessness of the situation. “It is no use,” I said, “I can't tell you what those reasons were.” I turned as I said it. I did not care to see her expression change. I knew what she must be thinking and I had no desire to read the thought in her eyes. I stood there, waiting for her to leave in disgust. “I can't tell you,” I repeated, stubbornly. “Very well.” Her tone was as coldly indifferent as I had anticipated. “Was that all you wished to say to me, Mr. Paine?” “Miss Colton, I should like to explain if I could. But I cannot.”