Mrs. McBride’s eyes flashed.

“Oh, you are all the same, you Englishmen.  Beasts to kill and women to subjugate—­the only aims in life!”

“Don’t!” said Hector.  “I am not the animal you think me.  I worship Theodora, and I would devote my life and its best aims to secure her happiness and do her honor; but don’t you see you have drawn a picture that would drive any man mad—­”

“I said you had to face the worst, and I calculate the worst for you would be to see her with some little Browns along.  My!  How it makes you wince!  Well, face it then and be a man.”

He sat for a moment, his head buried in his hands—­then—­

“I will,” he said, “I will do what I can; but oh, when you have the chance you will be good to her, won’t you, dear friend?”

“There, there!” said the widow, and she patted his hand.  “I had to scold you, because I see you have got the attack very badly and only strong measures are any good; but you know I am sorry for you both, and feel dreadfully, because I helped you to it without enough thought as to consequences.”

There was silence for a few minutes, and she continued to stroke his hand.

“Dominic has run down to Dieppe to see those daughters of his,” she said, presently, “and won’t be back to-night.  I meant to be all alone and meditate and go to bed early; but you can dine with me, if you wish, up here, and we will talk everything over.  Our plans for the future, I mean, and what will be best to do; I kind of feel like your mother-in-law, you know.”  Which sentence comforted him.

This woman was his friend, and so kind of heart, if sometimes a little plain-spoken.

* * * * *

And late that night he wrote to Theodora.

“My darling,” he began.  “I must call you that even though I have no right to. My darling—­I want to tell you these my thoughts to-night, before I see you to-morrow as an ordinary guest at your dinner-party.  I want you to know how utterly I love you, and how I am going to do my best with the rest of my life to show you how I honor you and revered you as an angel, and something to live for and shape my aims to be worthy of the recollection of that hour of bliss you granted me.  Dearest love, does it not give you joy—­just a little—­to remember those moments of heaven?  I do not regret anything, though I am all to blame, for I knew from the beginning I loved you, and just where love would lead us.  But it was not until I saw the peep into your soul, when you never reproached me, that I began to understand what a brute I had been—­how unworthy of you or your love.  Darling, I don’t ask you to try and forget me—­indeed, I implore you not to do so.  I think and believe you are of the nature which only loves once in a lifetime, and I am world-worn and experienced enough to know I have never really loved before.  How passionately I do now I cannot put into words.  So let us keep