Clementina stepped out into the moonlight with him, and they walked across the grass that sloped between the hotel and the river.  There were still people about, late smokers singly, and in groups along the piazzas, and young couples, like themselves, strolling in the dry air, under the pure sky.

Gregory made several failures in trying to begin, before he said:  “I have to tell you that you are mistaken about Mr. Fane.  I was there behind the letter boxes when you came in, and I know that you left these shoes because you thought he sent them to you.  He didn’t send them.”  Clementina did not say anything, and Gregory was forced to ask:  “Do you wish to know who sent them?  I won’t tell you unless you do wish it.”

“I think I ought to know,” she said, and she asked, “Don’t you?”

“Yes; for you must blame some one else now, for what you thought Fane did.  I sent them to you.”

Clementina’s heart gave a leap in her breast, and she could not say anything.  He went on.

“I saw that you wanted them that day, and when the peddler happened to overtake me in the woods where I was walking, after I left you, I acted on a sudden impulse, and I bought them for you.  I meant to send them to you anonymously, then.  I had committed one error in acting upon impulse-my rashness is my besetting sin—­and I wished to add a species of deceit to that.  But I was kept from it until-to-day.  I hoped you would like to wear them to the dance to-night, and I put them in the post-office for you myself.  Mr. Fane didn’t know anything about it.  That is all.  I am to blame, and no one else.”

He waited for her to speak, but Clementina could only say, “I don’t know what to say.”

“You can’t say anything that would be punishment enough for me.  I have acted foolishly, cruelly.”

Clementina did not think so.  She was not indignant, as she was when she thought Fane had taken this liberty with her, but if Mr. Gregory thought it was so very bad, it must be something much more serious than she had imagined.  She said, “I don’t see why you wanted to do it,” hoping that he would be able to tell her something that would make his behavior seem less dreadful than he appeared to think it was.

“There is only one thing that could justify it, and that is something that I cannot justify.”  It was very mysterious, but youth loves mystery, and Clementina was very young.  “I did it,” said Gregory solemnly, and he felt that now he was acting from no impulse, but from a wisely considered decision which he might not fail in without culpability, “because I love you.”

“Oh!” said Clementina, and she started away from him.

“I knew that it would make me detestable!” he cried, bitterly.  “I had to tell you, to explain what I did.  I couldn’t help doing it.  But now if you can forget it, and never think of me again, I can go away, and try to atone for it somehow.  I shall be guided.”