After all, there were worse women than the poor countess. She was a good comrade, and infinitely to be pitied. Was it her fault that she had been torn from her convent in the white innocence of ignorant girlhood and flung without power of protest into the arms of an elderly and unlovable husband, with no pause for reflection, and neither knowledge nor a moment's experience of life? What was there to guide and protect a lovely, lonely, fascinating girl, childless and unloved, and unconscious alike of her power and her weakness, through the rocks and quicksands of a hard and cruel world? Poor child--poor, dear, good-hearted countess! And if her reputation were a trifle damaged, how many, far less tempted and yet of spotless fame in the eyes of a hoodwinked world, were frailer than she! And, after all, who was spotless among women--except Agatha? To be near Agatha would be calm and safety from that wild and wandering fire. And yet, as he sat listening to the multitudinous murmur of broken seas, with her hand pressed hard to his side, he was powerless to shake off the spell of that passionate hour; the physical attraction, the glowing eyes, the transfigured beauty, the thrilling voice, the pathos, the pity, the deep emotion, were always in his eyes and ears and heart. What could Agatha know of that, or of the intensified power of it all in an hour of desperate need and misery? "Is it true," he asked, after a long silence, "that my mother is pressed for money, and that you give typewriting to the girls?" "Ask her yourself. I may say nothing." "And are you _that man's_ paid secretary? Don't say that's true--not that." "What man?" "Oh, that foreign chap, that Pole--de Konski, as he calls himself. He's on some secret service; half English he says he is. He's all right for me; but for you to be his secretary!" "Certainly I am--his confidential secretary." "Good Lord! Confidential! Mixed up in all that underhand business--intrigues--who knows what devilry! In his pay! And why? When you have a good home, when mother is wanting you, and would give anything to have you back with her." "Surely you know why, Ivor--not that your poor mother does. We try to keep the worst from her. The girls help a little--she thinks it is her own money. She can't realize how that has dwindled--and then my--pay is very good." "O Lord! As bad as that! And if only--yes, I might have gone straight, I might--if only--if only you had given me a chance, a hope, had kept true to me!" "True? I have always been the same to you. We have always been friends, Ivor, ever since we were such little things, playfellows, then companions. Always fond of each other--in that way--till now, when you reproach me and make other claims upon me." "I should never have got into this mess if only you would have cared for me."