"Ah, that's my affair," I returned, "and if I accept the consequences I don't quite see what you've to say to it. That I do accept them--so far as I make them out as not too intolerable and you as not intending them to be--that I do accept them is what I've been trying to signify to you. Only my fall," I added, "is an inevitable shock. You remarked to me a few minutes since that you didn't recover yourself in a flash. I differ from you, you see, in that _I_ do; I take my collapse all at once. Here then I am. I'm smashed. I don't see, as I look about me, a piece I can pick up. I don't attempt to account for my going wrong; I don't attempt to account for yours with me; I don't attempt to account for anything. If Long _is_ just what he always was it settles the matter, and the special clincher for us can be but your honest final impression, made precisely more aware of itself by repentance for the levity with which you had originally yielded to my contagion." She didn't insist on her repentance; she was too taken up with the facts themselves. "Oh, but add to my impression everyone else's impression! Has anyone noticed anything?" "Ah, I don't know what anyone has noticed. I haven't," I brooded, "ventured--as you know--to ask anyone." "Well, if you had you'd have seen--seen, I mean, all they don't see. If they had been conscious they'd have talked." I thought. "To me?" "Well, I'm not sure to you; people have such a notion of what you embroider on things that they're rather afraid to commit themselves or to lead you on: they're sometimes in, you know," she luminously reminded me, "for more than they bargain for, than they quite know what to do with, or than they care to have on their hands." I tried to do justice to this account of myself. "You mean I see so much?" It was a delicate matter, but she risked it. "Don't you sometimes see horrors?" I wondered. "Well, names are a convenience. People catch me in the act?" "They certainly think you critical." "And is criticism the vision of horrors?" She couldn't quite be sure where I was taking her. "It isn't, perhaps, so much that you see them----" I started. "As that I perpetrate them?" She was sure now, however, and wouldn't have it, for she was serious. "Dear no--you don't perpetrate anything. Perhaps it would be better if you did!" she tossed off with an odd laugh. "But--always by people's idea--you like them." I followed. "Horrors?" "Well, you don't----" "Yes----?" But she wouldn't be hurried now. "You take them too much for what they are. You don't seem to want----" "To come down on them strong? Oh, but I often do!" "So much the better then." "Though I do like--whether for that or not," I hastened to confess, "to look them first well in the face."