holes, but which nevertheless constitutes its saving grace.  Well, in this game of love I—­cheated.  I said, one day, that I had won, when I hadn’t won.  I said it to people who welcomed my victory, not through friendship for me, but from envy of—­her.”  The perspiration began to stand in beads upon Bienville’s forehead, but he held himself erect and went on with the same outward tranquillity.  His eyes were fixed on Pruyn’s, and Pruyn’s on his, in a gaze from which even the nearest objects were excluded.  “In the little group in which we lived her position was peculiar.  She was both within our gates and without them.  While she was one of us by birth, she was a stranger by education and by marriage.  She was admitted with a welcome, and at the same time with a question.  She was a mark for enmity from the very first.  There was something about her that challenged our institutions.  In among our worn-out passions and moribund ideals she brought a freshness we resented.  She made our prejudices seem absurd from contrast with her own sanity, and showed our moral standards to be rotten by the light of the something clear and virginal in her character.  I can’t tell you how this effect was brought about, but there were few of us who weren’t aware of it, as there were few of us who didn’t hate it.  There was but one impulse among us—­to catch her in a fault, to make her no better than ourselves.  The daring of her innocence afforded us many opportunities; and we made use of them.  One man after another confessed himself defeated.  Then came my turn.  I wasn’t merely defeated; I was put to utter rout, with ridicule and scorn.  That was too much for me.  I couldn’t stand it; and—­and—­I lied.”

“Oh, Bienville, that will do!” Diane cried out, in a pleading wail.  “Don’t say any more!”

“I’m not sure that there’s any more I need to say.  The rest can be easily understood.  Every one knows how a man who lies once is obliged to lie again, and again, and yet again, unless he frees himself as I do.  When I began I thought I had it in me to go on heroically—­but I hadn’t.  I can’t keep it up.  I’m not one of the master villains, who command respect from force of prowess.  I’m a weakling in evil, as in good, fit neither for God nor for the devil.  But that’s my affair.  I needn’t trouble any one here with what only concerns myself.  It’s too late for me to make everything right now; but I’ll do what I can before—­before—­I mean,” he stammered on, “I’ll write.  I’ll write to the people—­there were only a few of them—­to whom I actually used the words I did.  I’ll ask them to correct the impression I have given.  I know they’ll do it, when they know—­”

He stopped helplessly.  The lustre died out of his eyes, and his pallor became sallowness.

“But I’ve said enough,” he began again, making a tremendous effort to regain his self-mastery.  “You can have no doubt as to my meaning; and you will be able to fill in anything I may have left unspoken.  Now,” he added, sweeping the room with a look—­“now—­I’d better—­go.”