“Yes.  If I could understand that, I should understand everything.  Once, long ago, Walter said the same thing to me, and I couldn’t understand.”

“Well—­well, it depends on what one calls unfaithfulness.  Some men are brutes, but we’re not talking about them.  We’re talking about Walter.”

“Yes.  We’re talking about Walter.”

“And Walter is my dearest friend, so dear that I hardly know how to talk to you about him.”

“Try,” she said.

“Well, I suppose I know more about him than anybody else.  And I never knew a man freer from any weakness for women.  He was always so awfully sorry for them, don’t you know.  Sarah Cayley could never have fastened herself on him if he hadn’t been sorry for her.  No more could that girl—­Maggie Forrest.”

“How did he come to know her?”

“Oh, some fellow he knew had behaved pretty badly to her, and Walter had been paying for her keep, years before there was anything between them.  She got dependent on him, and he on her.  We are pathetically dependent creatures, Mrs. Majendie.”

“What was she like?”

“She?  Oh, a soft, simple, clinging little thing.  And instead of shaking her off, he let her cling.  That’s how it all began.  Then, of course, the rest followed.  I’m not excusing him, mind you.  Only—­” Poor Hannay became shy and unhappy.  He hid his face in his hands and lifted it from them, red, as if with shame.  “The fact is,” he said, “I’m a clumsy fellow, Mrs. Majendie.  I want to help you, but I’m afraid of hurting you.”

“Nothing can hurt me now.”

“Well—­” He pondered again.  “If you want to get down to the root of it, it’s as simple as hunger and thirst.”

“Hunger and thirst,” she murmured.

“It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.  When you’re not thirsty you don’t think about drinking.  When you are thirsty, you do.  When you’re driven mad with thirst, you think of nothing else.  And sometimes—­not always—­when you can’t get clean water, you drink water that’s—­not so clean.  Though you may be very particular.  Walter was—­morally—­the most particular man I ever knew.”

“I know.  I know.”

“Mind you, the more particular a man is, the thirstier he’ll be.  And supposing he can never get a drop of water at home, and every time he goes out, some kind person offers him a drink—­can you blame him very much if, some day, he takes it?”

“No,” she said.  She said it very low, and turned her face from him.

“Look here, Mrs. Majendie,” he said, “you know why I’m saying all this.”

“To help me,” she said humbly.

“And to help him.  Neither you nor I know whether he’s going to live or die.  And I’ve told you all this so that, if he does die, you mayn’t have to judge him harshly, and if he doesn’t die, you may feel that he’s—­he’s given back to you.  D’you see?”

“Yes, I see,” she said softly.