“I must ask you to believe,” he said, looking anywhere but at her, “that I did not forget you in the matter. I may seem to have acted with an utter disregard for your feelings--” He broke off suddenly, and, turning, he stood on the hearthrug with his feet apart, his hands clasped behind his back, his head slightly bowed. “I drew on the reserve of an old friendship,” he said. “You were kind enough to say the other day that you were indebted to me to some extent. You are indebted to me to a larger extent than you perhaps realise. You owe me fifty years of happiness--fifty years of a life that might have been happy had you decided differently when--when we were younger. I do not blame you now--I never have blamed you. But the debt is there--you know my life, you know almost every day of it--you cannot deny the debt. I drew upon that.” And the white-haired woman raised her hand. “Don't,” she said gently, “please don't say any more. I know all that your life has been, and why. You did quite right. What is a little trouble to me, a little passing inconvenience, the tattle of a few idle tongues, compared with what Jack's life is to you? I see now that I ought to have opposed it strongly instead of letting it take its course. You were right--you always have been right, John. There is a sort of consolation in the thought. I like it. I like to think that you were always right and that it was I who was wrong. It confirms my respect for you. We shall get over this somehow.” “The young lady,” suggested Sir John, “will get over it after the manner of her kind. She will marry some one else, let us hope, before her wedding-dress goes out of fashion.” “Millicent will have to get over it as she may. Her feelings need scarcely be taken into consideration.” Lady Cantourne made a little movement towards the door. There was much to see to--much of that women's work which makes weddings the wild, confused ceremonies that they are. “I am afraid,” said Sir John, “that I never thought of taking them into consideration. As you know, I hardly considered yours. I hope I have not overdrawn that reserve.” He had crossed the room as he spoke to open the door for her. His fingers were on the handle, but he did not turn it, awaiting her answer. She did not look at him, but past him towards the shaded lamp with that desire to fix her attention upon some inanimate object which he knew of old. “The reserve,” she answered, “will stand more than that. It has accumulated--with compound interest. But I deny the debt of which you spoke just now. There is no debt. I have paid it, year by year, day by day. For each one of those fifty years of unhappiness I have paid a year--of regret.” He opened the door and she passed out into the brilliantly lighted passage and down the stairs, where the servants were waiting to open the door and help her to her carriage. Sir John did not go downstairs with her.