"That's where I interfered, Miss Vining. And the footman looked doubtful, too, but he signalled the chauffeur.... And so I went to the Café Cammargue----" He hesitated, looking at her white and distressed face, then continued coolly: "Sprowl seemed surprised to see me. He was waiting in a private room.... He's looking rather badly these days.... We talked a few minutes----" Pale, angry, every sense of modesty and reserve outraged, the girl faced him, small head erect: "You went there to--to discuss _me_ with _that_ man!" He was silent. She turned suddenly and tried to open the door, but he held it closed. "I did it because I cared for you enough to do it," he said. "Don't you understand? Don't you suppose I know that kind of man?" "It--it was not your business--" she faltered, twisting blindly at the door-knob. "Let me go--please----" "I made it my business.... And that man understood that I was making it my business. And he won't attempt to annoy you again.... Can you forgive me?" She turned on him excitedly, her eyes flashing with tears, but the impetuous words of protest died on her lips as her eyes encountered his. "It was because I love you," he said. And, as he spoke, there was about the man a quiet dignity and distinction that silenced her--something of which she may have had vague glimpses at wide intervals in their acquaintances--something which at times she suspected might lie latent in unknown corners of his character. Now it suddenly confronted her; and she recognised it and stood before him without a word to say. It mended matters a little when he smiled, and the familiar friend reappeared beside her; but she still felt strange and shy; and wondering, half fearfully, she let him lift her gloved hands and stand, holding them, looking into her eyes. "You know what I am," he said. "I have nothing to say about myself. But I love you very dearly.... I loved before, once, and married. And she died.... After that I didn't behave very well--until I knew you.... It is really in me to be a decent husband--if you can care for me.... And I don't think we're likely to starve----" "I--it isn't that," she said, flushing scarlet. "What?" "What you _have_ ... I could only care for--what you are." "Can you do that?" But her calm had vanished, and, head bent and averted, she was attempting to withdraw her hands--and might have freed herself entirely if it had not been for his arm around her. This new and disconcerting phase of the case brought her so suddenly face to face with him that it frightened her; and he let her go, and followed her back to the empty gallery where she sank down at her desk, resting her arms on the covered type-machine, and buried her quivering face in them. It was excusable. Such things don't usually happen to typewriters and stenographers although they have happened to barmaids.