“Watts!  Don’t talk so.”

“Dear little woman.  I’m only trying to show you that we can’t do better than trust our little girl to Peter.”

“With that stain!  Oh, Watts, give him our pure, innocent, spotless child!”

“Oh, well.  If you want a spotless wedding, let her marry the Church.  She’ll never find one elsewhere, my darling.”

“Watts!  How can you talk so?  And with yourself as an example.  Oh, husband!  I want our child—­our only child—­to marry a man as noble and true as her father.  Surely there must be others like you?”

“Yes.  I think there are a great many men as good as I, Rosebud!  But I’m no better than I should be, and it’s nothing but your love that makes you think I am.”

“I won’t hear you say such things of yourself.  You know you are the best and purest man that ever lived.  You know you are.”

“If there’s any good in me, it’s because I married you.”

“Watts, you couldn’t be bad if you tried.”  And Mrs. D’Alloi put her arms round Watts’s neck and kissed him.

Watts fondled her for a moment in true lover’s fashion.  Then he said, “Dear little wife, a pure woman can never quite know what this world is.  I love Dot next to you, and would not give her to a man whom I believe would not be true to her, or make her happy.  I know every circumstance of Peter’s connection with that woman, and he is as blameless as man ever was.  Such as it was, it was ended years ago, and can never give him more trouble.  He is a strong man, and will be true to Dot.  She might get a man who would make her life one long torture.  She may be won by a man who only cares for her money, and will not even give her the husks of love.  But Peter loves her, and has outgrown his mistakes.  And don’t forget that but for him we might now have nothing but some horribly mangled remains to remember of our little darling.  Dear, I love Dot twenty times more than I love Peter.  For her sake, and yours, I am trying to do my best for her.”

So presently Mrs. D’Alloi came into the library, where Peter sat.  She held out her hand to him, but Peter said: 

“Let me say something first.  Mrs. D’Alloi, I would not have had that occurrence happen in your home or presence if I had been able to prevent it.  It grieves me more than I can tell you.  I am not a roue.  In spite of appearances I have lived a clean life.  I shall never live any other in the future.  I—­I love Leonore.  Love her very dearly.  And if you will give her to me, should I win her, I pledge you my word that I will give her the love, and tenderness, and truth which she deserves.  Now, will you give me your hand?”

“He is speaking the truth,” thought Mrs. D’Alloi, as Peter spoke.  She held out her hand.  “I will trust her to you if she chooses you.”

Half an hour later, Peter went back to the drawing-room, to find Leonore reposing in an exceedingly undignified position before the fire on a big tiger-skin, and stroking a Persian cat, who, in delight at this enviable treatment, purred and dug its claws into the rug.  Peter stood for a time watching the pretty tableau, wishing he was a cat.