"I've been a fool, Prudence," he said. "A man is apt to forget the value of even his dearest treasure, simply, I suppose, because of the assurance given by possession; but when he is in danger of losing it he discovers his need. My dear, I have been very unhappy." He was seated beside her on the sofa, and he moved as he finished speaking and put a hand upon hers, which rested on the seat beside her. She twisted her hand round and clasped his warmly. "Perhaps it was rather a good thing that I came away," she said, after a moment's pause. "I was growing nervy. A woman with nerves is difficult to live with. I have been thinking, and finding out things. It is astonishing what a lot I've learned about myself just lately. I want to do better." "It's been my fault," he insisted. "I never made sufficient allowance for your youth, dear. We'll try again--make a fresh start. We'll talk things out together and not bottle up grievances. We have never talked freely enough to one another." "No," she said. "I'm rather glad," he said presently, "that things came to a head. It has opened up the way to a better understanding. You are the sort of woman a man learns to rely upon. You're honest. When I recall the things I said to you that night I am ashamed of myself." "Never mind that now," she said quickly. "I don't want to think of that. We agreed not to talk of that." She got up suddenly and stood in front of him, looking down at him with softened, smiling eyes. "I want to ask a favour," she said, "and I feel that that isn't quite honest just at the moment. It's like taking advantage of our talk. That's so like a woman, isn't it?" He sprang up from his seat and took her by the shoulders and kissed her. "It's the most generous response you could make," he said--"to ask a favour. It's a proof of your trust anyhow." "It's something very big," she said, with her earnest eyes lifted to his face. "If you are altogether against it I'll not insist." "Tell me what it is," he said, manifestly surprised by the seriousness of her manner, and entirely unsuspecting the nature of the request. A faint increase of colour stole into her cheeks, but she kept her gaze lifted to his. "I have discovered a little child," she explained softly, "whom nobody wants; and I want to mother him. I want to take him home with me." "You've always wanted that," he said, and waited for further enlightenment. Briefly she confided to his scandalised ears the story of William's illegitimate son, observing him closely while she unfolded the sordid tale in simple direct language, making no appeal to sentiment, merely relating the bald facts and leaving these to work their own effect. She was not in the least surprised that he was too shocked on hearing the story to feel any sympathy for the child in his deserted condition. That side of the picture left him unmoved.