"Hadn't I a single redeeming point?" Mrs. Tregent demanded.
He hesitated a little, and while he hesitated she looked at him. Her look was but of an instant, but it told him everything; told him, in one misty moonbeam, all she had known of old. She had known perfectly—she had been as conscious of the conditions of his experiment as of the invincibility of his repugnance. Whether her mother had betrayed him didn't matter; she had read everything clear and had had to accept the cruel truth. He was touched as he had never been by that moment's communication, he was, unexpectedly, almost awe-struck, for there was something still more in it than he had guessed. "I was letting my fancy play just now," he answered, apologetically. "It was I who was wanting—it was I who was the idiot!"
"Don't say that. You were so kind." And hereupon Mrs. Tregent startled her visitor by bursting into tears.
She recovered herself indeed, and they forbore, on that occasion, in the interest of the decorum expected of persons of their
