"Yes." Joan looked at him--her eyes widened; she tried to smile. She longed to cry out at what she saw, wanted to say: "You have come back. Come back." Instead she said slowly: "Yes." "I can never expect to have your forgiveness. I thank God that it is possible for us to part and, alone, seek to forget this horror. I will never intrude. I promise you that. Back in my college days I found out that I could not drink. It did something to me that it does not do to others. I never quite knew what until to-day. When I saw you standing there--the devil got loose. I know now. My God! To think that all one's life does not count when the devil takes hold." "Oh! Yes, it does, and it is the knowing that will help." Joan was crying softly. "You will have the right to trust yourself hereafter because you know." "I will always think of women as I see you now." Raymond spoke reverently. "You must not. Some women do not have to learn--I did. I think the best women know." "You must not say that." "Yes, I feel it. Had I shown you a better self while we played all would have been different. You would not have misunderstood. Women must not expect what they are not willing to give. I had done things that no girl can safely do and be understood and then--when you lost control--you thought of me as you really believed me. I can see it all now, see how I hurt you; hurt myself and hurt other girls; but it was because--not because I am a bad girl--but because I did not know myself any more than you knew yourself. How could we hope to know each other? I seem so old, now--so old! And I understand--at last." Raymond looked at her and pity filled his eyes, for she looked so touchingly young. "I think," he said, "that I shall see all girls for ever as I see you at this minute." "Oh, you must not." Joan gave a sob. "They are not like me, really." There was an awkward silence. Then: "Will you tell me your name? Will you try to trust me--just a little? It would prove it, if you only would." "I do not want you to know my name. You must promise to keep from knowing. It is all I ask." "Will you let me tell you--mine?" "No! no!" Joan put up her hands as if to ward off something tangible. "I only meant"--Raymond dropped his eyes--"that there isn't anything under heaven I wouldn't do to prove to you my sense of remorse. I thought if you knew you might call upon me some day to prove myself. I'm bungling, I know, but I wish I could make you understand how I feel." "I do." And now Joan got up rather unsteadily. "And some day--I--I may call upon you--for--for I have known your name--always!" "What!" "Please--forgive me. I was taking an advantage--but it did not seem to matter then, and I must keep the advantage now--for your sake as well as mine. And now, before we say good-bye, I want to tell you that I know you are going to have your ideals again. You will try to get them back, won't you?"