“Yes, I ’ll tell you--from the very beginning.” And there in the quasi-solitude of their tree--one of innumerable camping-spots for recumbent figures, that met the eye on all sides--he gave, for the first time, definite utterance to the horrors that had haunted him for six years. He told her the old story of the earthenware pot careering down the stream in company with the brazen vessels; of his debts, staring ruin, and his yielding to the great temptation; of his trial, his sentence rendered heavier by the fact that his malversations had brought misery into other lives. He described to her in lurid detail just what the prison-life was, what it meant, how its manifold degradation ate into a man’s flesh, became infused in his blood and ran for ever through his veins. He spared her nothing of which decency permitted the telling. Now and then Yvonne shivered a little and drew in a quick breath; but her great eyes never left his face--save once when he showed her his hands still scarred by the toil from which delicate fingers never recover. He had spoken jerkily, in hard, dry tones; so he ended abruptly. There was silence. Yvonne’s little gloved hand crept to his and pressed it. Then, with a common impulse, they rose to their feet. “Thank you for telling me,” she said, coming near to him and taking his arm. “I did not know how how terrible it has been--and I never realised what a brave man you are.” “I--brave, Yvonne?” he cried with a bitter laugh. “Yes--to have gone through that and to be the loyal, tender, true-hearted gentleman that you are.” He looked down at her and saw her soft eyes filled with tears and her lips quivering. “You still feel the same to me, Yvonne, now that you know it all?” he asked, bending forward on his stick. “More,” she answered. “Oh,--much more.” They walked back to the Park gates in a happy silence, drawn very near to one another, since both hearts were very full. So close together did they walk, so softened was the man’s face, and so sweetly proud the woman’s, that they might have been taken for lovers. But if love was hovering over them, he touched neither with an awakening feather. And so they passed on their way untroubled. That day was, in a certain sense, a landmark in their lives. Yvonne never referred to the prison again, but she learned to know when its shadow was over him and at such times her nature melted in tenderness towards him.