"Oh, I did"--fervently. "And then there was the day of the Fêtes des Narcisses, when I hit you with a rosebud by mistake. You glared at me as if I'd committed one of the seven deadly sins." "So you had--if occupying the thoughts of a 'confirmed misogynist' who had forsworn women and all their ways counts as one of them!" A silence fell between them. The lightly uttered speech suddenly recalled the past, and each was vividly conscious of the bitter root from which it sprang. The man's face darkened as though he would push aside the memory. "But that's past," said Ann at last, very softly. He turned to her curiously. "So you know, then?" She flushed. "Yes, I know--I heard. People talk. But I've not been gossiping, Eliot--truly." A brief smile crossed his face. "You--gossiping! That's good. But I might have guessed you would hear all about it. Even one's own particular rack and thumbscrew aren't private property nowadays"--bitterly. "I wonder how much you know. What have you heard?" "Oh, very little--" she began confusedly, her heart aching for the bitterness which still lingered in his voice. "Tell me," he insisted authoritatively. "I'd rather you knew the truth than some garbled version of it." Very reluctantly Ann repeated what she had learned from Mrs. Hilyard--the bare facts of that unhappy episode in his life which had turned him into a soured, embittered man. "Anything more? Do you know who the woman was--her name?" "No. Only that she was very young"--pitifully. "I believe," he said, cupping her face in his hand and turning it up to his, "I believe you are actually _sorry_ for her?" "Yes, I am. I'm sorry for any one who makes a dreadful mistake and loses their whole happiness through it," she answered heartily. "I'm afraid I don't take such a broad-minded view of things," he returned grimly. "I haven't a forgiving disposition, and I believe in people getting what they deserve. You'd better remember that"--smiling briefly--"if ever you feel tempted to try how far you can go." "Do you know, I think you're going to prove rather an autocratic lover, Eliot?" she said, laughing gently. "All good lovers are," he answered, drawing her into his arms once more with a sudden, swift jealousy. "Don't you know that? It's the very essence of love--possession, A man asks everything of the woman he loves--past, present, and future. He will he satisfied with nothing less."