George was still in his chair when Trixie entered the room. At the far end she could see his head and shoulders silhouetted against the opposite open door. The lamps had not yet been lighted, and a powerful electric fan kept the air in motion, creating a semblance of coolness. Was he asleep? She stole softly round the back of the chair and knelt by his side. "Trixie?" His arm went round her; she pressed her face against his. "Shall I tell you now," she asked, "or are you tired?" "Tell away," he encouraged her cheerfully, in prompt understanding. There was a pause; then he found she was crying. "Darling!" he urged with concern. "Whatever you tell me I shall believe--of course." "Oh, George, I love you, I love you; but I was frightened. I didn't know what you might think. Really I hadn't--hadn't done anything _awfully_ wrong." "I know, I know," he soothed with tenderness, and waited, stroking her hair until she grew calmer. "Well? How did it happen? Don't tell me unless you like; it won't make any difference." "Oh, but I want to explain," she began once more. "You know, that evening, the night you came back, it was so hot and so lonely, it seemed as if the time would never go by--and I let myself be persuaded into dining with that rowdy little Roy woman. We all went on the river afterwards because there was such a moon; and somehow, _not_ on purpose, I went in a boat alone with Guy Greaves." She paused again, reluctant to "give away Guy," yet anxious to make no concealment. The pause and a little unconscious movement signified mental unease; Coventry guessed what had followed and came to her aid. "And then, I dare say," he suggested good-humouredly, "young Guy made an ass of himself, and you were obliged to squash him?" "Oh, George, how did you know?" "Never mind. Well, let us skip that part and proceed. What happened next?" "Then we got stuck on the sandbank. I thought we should be there all night, perhaps till after you had got home next day." She shivered, recalling her anguish of mind. Slowly the tale was unfolded, till she came to the walk through the dust in the road, and then she omitted, without hesitation, her quarrel with Guy regarding her husband, and the qualms it had caused her of which she was sorely ashamed; so she unwittingly spared him a measure of extra pain. When she had finished he kissed her lips. Words were not needed between them now. She laid her head on his shoulder with a sigh of supreme content, feeling ineffably happy.... The room was almost in darkness; the only sound within it was the whirring of the fan. Coventry drew his wife into his arms; he knew she was wholly his. Love and tenderness flooded his heart, that yet ached with a load that could never be lightened. For even as he held her, sweet and silent, to his breast, his conscience cried the bitter truth--that always must he owe the saving of her love, and of her trust, to the woman in the bazaar.