I wasted no words, though I chose to be careful in my use of them.  With some deliberation, born of the difficulties of this second embassy, I told her all that I knew of Jerry’s affair with Marcia Van Wyck, beginning with the parts of it which she knew, and leading by slow degrees to the moment when Jerry had abandoned his guests at the Manor and gone on his madman’s quest of vengeance through the woods.  I recalled to her the state of his mind, the indubitable evidences of his innocence, and then told of Jerry’s meeting with Marcia and Lloyd by the spring in the pine wood.  She sat, leaning slightly forward, her gaze on the sunlit arch, her finely-drawn profile clearly outlined against the shadows of the bushes, saying nothing, listening as though to a twice-told tale.  I could not tell all, but something in her calmness advised me that she had already guessed.  There was knowledge in her eyes, not the hard knowledge one sees in the eyes of the women of the streets, but knowledge tempered with pity; wisdom tempered with charity for all sin, even for Jerry’s.  She did not speak for a long while and by this token I think she wished me to take her understanding for granted.

“Mr. Canby,” she said at last softly.  “I know something of the world, more, I think, in a way than you do, and the more I learn, the less I am inclined to judge.  But of all the women in the world with whom I come in contact, the most dangerous, the most difficult to help, is the hypocrite.  When a woman is weak one can pity.  When she is defiant one can even admire, but the hypocrite is beyond the pale.  She will fawn while her heart is untouched, she will assent while her mind is eluding you.  And the worst hypocrite is the one who wears the mask of decency over a filthy mind.  She is diseased, a moral leper—­at large to contaminate.  Jerry was helpless from the first.  Oh, the pity of it!”

“It was my fault; mine is the blame,” I muttered hoarsely.

“No,” she said, gently putting her hand over mine.  “I would not have you relinquish your idyl even now.  Jerry is translated, but he is not changed.  It is curious—­you will think it strange—­but I cannot find it in my heart to judge him.  He has suffered much.  Perhaps, God knows, a man cannot grow to his full stature except through knowledge of evil!  Jerry has grown.  He is a man—­a man!”

Her eyes sparkled softly and my spirits rose.

“You care for him, Una?  You can forgive him?”

“I—­I care for him,” she murmured.  “You know I have, always.”

“Can you forgive him?” I repeated.  She remained silent and her gaze which sought the distant buildings was troubled.  But I had gone too far to pause now.

“He worships you, Una,” I blurted out.  “He has told me.  But he cannot speak.  He is unclean, he says.  Have pity on him, Una.  Forgive him, forgive him—­”

She turned toward me, her slate-blue eyes brimming with moisture.  And then with one of those sudden transitions that were her greatest mystery and charm, she rose and with a quick touch of her fingers to mine, left me swiftly and in a moment was gone.