His chance, indeed, had summoned him, though not for the perfect sacrifice.  Circumstance had crushed out most of the joy of giving.  For, first, she had suspected him, which nothing could ever blot out; and now, when she knew the truth about him, there could hardly be much left for him to give.  It needed no treacherous editorial to make her hate the son of his father; their friendship was over in any case.

Still, it was his opportunity to do for her something genuine and large; to pay in part the debt he owed her—­the personal and living debt, which was so much greater than the dead thing of principal and interest.

No, no.  It was not endurable that this proud little lady, who kept her head so high, should find at the last moment, this stain upon her lover’s honor.

She dropped her hands and lifted a white face.

“And you—­” she began unsteadily, but checked herself and went on in a calmer voice.  “And you—­after what he has done to you, too—­you are going to stand by him—­take his name—­accept that inheritance—­be his son?”

“What else is there for me to do?”

Their eyes met, and hers were hurriedly averted.

“Don’t you think,” he said, “that that is the only thing to do?”

Again she found it impossible to endure the knowledge of his fixed gaze.  She rose once more and stood at the mantel, her forehead leaned against her hand upon it, staring unseeingly down into the fire.

“How can I tell you how fine a thing you are doing—­how big—­and splendid—­when—­”

A dark red color flooded his face from neck to forehead; it receded almost violently leaving him whiter than before.

“Not at all!  Not in the least!” he said, with all his old impatience.  “I could not escape if I would.”

She seemed not to hear him.  “How can I tell you that—­and about how sorry I am—­when all the time it seems that I can think only of—­something else!”

“You are speaking of the reformatory,” he said, with bracing directness.

There followed a strained silence.

“Oh,” broke from her—­“how could you bear to do it?”

“Don’t you see that we cannot possibly discuss it?  It is a question of one’s honor—­isn’t it?  It is impossible that such a thing could be argued about.”

“But—­surely you have something to say—­some explanation to make!  Tell me.  You will not find me—­a hard judge.”

“I’m sorry,” he said brusquely, “but I can make no explanation.”

She was conscious that he stood beside her on the hearth-rug.  Though her face was lowered and turned from him, the eye of her mind held perfectly the presentment of his face, and she knew that more than age had gone over it since she had seen it last.  Had any other man in the world but West been in the balance, she felt that, despite his own words, she could no longer believe him guilty.  And even as it was—­how could that conceivably be the face of a man who—­