There were many things she had borne, of which she had said nothing to Agnes Sylvestre in telling her story,--things she had forced herself to ignore or pass by; but just now some sudden, passionate realization of them was too much for her, and she answered him in words she felt it was madness to utter even as they leaped to her lips. "Richard has not been unwilling," she said. "Richard has not resented it!" "If he had been in my place," he began, feeling ill at ease--"if he understood"-- She dropped her screen upon her lap and looked at him with steady eyes. "No," she interposed, "that is a mistake. He would not have looked upon the matter as you do. It is only a trifle, after all. You are overestimating its importance." "Am I?" he said. "Do you regard it in that light?" "Yes," she replied, "you are too fastidious. Is the spiteful comment of an ill-natured, unattractive woman, upon a woman who chances to be more fortunate than herself, of such weight that it is likely to influence people greatly? Women are always saying such things of one another when they are angry. I cannot say them of our friend, it is true, because--because she is so fortunate as to be placed by nature beyond reproach. If I had her charms, and her manner, and her years, I should, perhaps, be beyond reproach too." She wondered if he would deign to answer her at all. It seemed as if the execrable bad taste of her words must overwhelm him. If he had turned his back upon her and left the room, she would have felt no surprise. To have seen him do so would have been almost a relief. But, for him, he merely stood perfectly still and watched her. "Go on," he said, at length. She faintly smiled. "Do you want me to say more?" she asked. "Is not that enough? My great lady was angry, and was stupid enough to proclaim the fact." She made a quick turn toward him. "To whom was she speaking?" she demanded. "To a man or a woman?" "To a man," he answered. She sank back into her chair and smiled again. "Ah," she said, "then it is of less consequence even than I imagined. It is pleasant to reflect that it was a man. One is not afraid of men." She lifted the screen from her lap, and for a moment he could not see her face. "Now he will go," she was saying to herself breathlessly behind it. "Now he must go. He will go now--and he will not come back." But he did not go. It was the irony of fate that he should spare her nothing. In the few moments of silence which followed he had a great struggle with himself. It was such a struggle that, when it was at an end, he was pale and looked subdued. There was a chair near her. He went to it and sat down at her side.