"I see," she said slowly. "Maybe I have it on the brain--but it's very natural under all the circumstances--and when I'm trying to live down my past. It's dreadfully hard, Montague, dreadfully hard for a woman to live down her past. You men can never know how hard it is--you have no past." "You make it harder than it is, Stephanie," he said, "though I think that no one knows it except me--you conceal your feelings marvellously well." "Thank you, Montague--I have tried to hide them from this cold and heartless world we call Society. And I _have_ been indiscreet, I know. Striving to appear indifferent, I overdid the part. It _was_ foolish of me to encourage Porshinger, even a little. I ought to have realized what a dangerous man he is--I ought to have been warned by you, instead of showing anger at your well meant and entirely justifiable protest. I have only myself to blame--which makes it all the harder." "Nonsense! dear.--You did what you thought was right, and because you thought it was right--and because you feared lest Porshinger would injure me. Now we are going to stand together--and let Lorraine help you, if he will--without any obligation on your part," he added, as she made a vehement gesture of protest. "We shall see whether he has sufficient manhood to defend his wife if Porshinger starts his slanderous tales." "Suppose his first tale is of--us--and what he saw on the Criss-Cross piazza?" she remarked. "I will deny it." "And what--shall I do?" "You need do nothing--except preserve the dignity of silence." "But if my husband hearkens to the story, and demands an explanation from us both?" "Still the same course for us," Pendleton replied:--"You indignant silence--me denial." "And have Society in general laugh knowingly and believe--and even our friends accept the denial hesitatingly." "What other course can you suggest?" he asked. "There is but one other course--tell the truth," she said. "And raise a greater scandal--and put you in Porshinger's power?" he objected. "If you admit his tale as to me, won't you practically admit whatever he may choose to say regarding his own experience with you?" "You may be right!" she said wearily. "I do not know--whatever you think best I shall do." "I've got you into this miserable difficulty and I shall----" "My dear Montague, dismiss that idea. I got myself in it by my own insane actions with Amherst." "And I gave Porshinger the occasion he needed by the fight here and the kiss at Criss-Cross. I tell you I'm more to blame than are you." He leaned over close. "If Lorraine would only divorce you, dear--and you would marry _me_ you wouldn't need care for Porshinger's tales. They would have lost their point, and no one worth while would ever give them a thought." "My _dear_ friend," she exclaimed, looking at him with a serious smile, "it is not for such as I to think of marriage. I have made too fearful a mess of the one that still binds me."