For a brief space Pendleton did not trust himself to answer, if indeed he had the power, so overcome was he by shame and anger, and the rush of hatred that well nigh choked him. Then it passed, and he was cool and calm--preternaturally so, indeed--though the intensity of his feelings was betrayed by the flashing of his eyes. His first words were a confession of his own atrocious error. "My poor Stephanie! I am shamed beyond words--to have brought this thing upon you by my folly." "You are not responsible--it's myself," she said evenly. "Do you think that he would have dared it but for the Amherst affair?" "I gave him courage--I am guilty too," he objected. "You don't know the man. He thinks everything must bow before him--thinks he can buy anyone if he but have a chance--thinks every woman has her price--and that I am openly for sale. He can't understand that what a woman may do once, she would burn at the stake rather than do again. He's a beast! Montague, a beast!" "A human beast unfortunately--whom one can't kill with impunity," Pendleton reflected. "Moreover, I doubt if it would be wise to kill him." "Good Heavens! No!" she cried. "Neither do I know just how the matter ought to be handled. Of course, you will ignore him in the future----" "I shall never _see_ him!" she declared. "But if he sees you--forces himself upon you----" "He would not dare." "He _would_ dare! He is vile enough to dare anything--to do anything. He has no notion of decency nor of right when it crosses his purposes. He has neither conscience nor shame. He is what you styled him: a beast--a vicious beast, I should add." "What would _you_ do with a vicious beast of his kind who forces himself upon you?" she asked. "I should take care to have some one always with me," he replied slowly--"and I should appeal instantly for protection, if he made the slightest attempt to intrude." "And suffer him to circulate some horrible tale about me?" "You have to chance that," Pendleton answered. "If he does, your friends will then be in a position to make such a protest as he will be apt to remember." "Meanwhile, the harm will be done," she replied. "If he _can_ harm you," he observed. "You're a trifle too sensitive of your position, dear. It is not what it was--when you returned. Surely your word is equal to Porshinger's." "Many will be glad to believe his story--whatever it is," she protested. "You see, I was friendly with him--and my past is--not in my favor." "Those who believe it, you won't any longer want to know; nor need you care for them--you will be well rid of them. And your past is _past_; don't let it worry you, sweetheart. You're obsessed by it." "I'm afraid I don't know just what obsessed means, Montague," she said, with a wan little smile. "You attach undue importance to it; you've--got it on the brain, so to speak," he explained.