She turned suddenly as she heard his low knock at her door.  She had been afraid to hear it once; now it made her heart beat hard with longing and another fear.  He came in.  He stood by the closed door, gazing at her with the dumb look that she knew.

She went to meet him, with her hands out-stretched to him, her face glowing.

“Oh, my dear,” she said, “you’ve come back to me.  You’ve come back.”

He looked down on her with miserable eyes.  She put her arms about him.  His face darkened and was stern to her.  He held her by her arms and put her from him, and she trembled in all her body, humiliated and rebuked.

“No.  Not that,” he said.  “Not now.  I can’t ask you to take me back now.”

“Need you ask me—­now?”

“You don’t understand,” he said.  “You don’t know.  Darling, you don’t know.”

At the word of love she turned to him, beseeching him with her tender eyes.

“Sit down,” he said.  “I want to talk to you.”

She sat down on the couch, and made room for him beside her.

“I don’t want,” she said, “to know more than I do.”

“I’m afraid you must know.  When you do know you won’t talk about taking me back.”

“I have taken you back.”

“Not yet.  I’d no business to come back at all, without telling you.”

“Tell me, then,” she said.

“I can’t.  I don’t know how.”

She put her hand on his.

“Don’t,” he said, “don’t.  I’d rather you didn’t touch me.”

She looked at him and smiled, and her smile cut him to the heart.

“Walter,” she said, “are you afraid of me?”

“Yes.”

“You needn’t be.”

“I am.  I’m afraid of your goodness.”

She smiled again.

“Do you think I’m good?”

“I know you are.”

“You don’t know how you’re hurting me.”

“I’ve always hurt you.  And I’m going to hurt you more.”

“You only hurt me when you talk about my goodness.  I’m not good.  I never was.  And I never can be, dear, if you’re afraid of me.  What is it that I must know?”

His voice sank.

“I’ve been unfaithful to you.  Again.”

“With whom?” she whispered.

“I can’t tell you.  Only—­it wasn’t Maggie.”

“When was it?”

“I think it was that Sunday—­at Scarby.”

“Why do you say you think?” she said gently.  “Don’t you know?”

“No.  I don’t know much about it.  I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“You can’t remember?”

“No.  I can’t remember.”

“Then—­are you sure you were—?”

“Yes.  I think so.  I don’t know.  That’s the horrible part of it.  I don’t know, I can’t remember anything about it.  I must have been drinking.”

She took his hand in hers again.  “Walter, dear, don’t think about it.  Don’t think it was possible.  Just put it all out of your head and forget about it.”