The departed cannot explain or defend themselves, and Morris's possible indiscretions already stood discounted in the only quarter where they might do harm.
Half an hour later Mary, sitting beside the fire with her toes upon the grate and her face to the window, perceived Morris on the gravel drive, wearing a preoccupied and rather wretched air.

She noted, moreover, that before he rang the bell he paused for a moment as though to shake himself together.
"Here you are at last," she said, cheerfully, as he bent down to kiss her, "seven whole minutes before your time, which is very nice of you.
Now, sit down there and get warm, and we will have a good, long talk." Morris obeyed.

"My father has been lunching with you, has he not ?" he said somewhat nervously.
"Yes, dear, and telling me all the news, and a sad budget it seems to be; about the dreadful disasters of the great gale and the death of that poor girl who was staying with you, Miss Fregelius." At the mention of this name Morris's face contorted itself, as the face of a man might do who was seized with a sudden pang of sharp and unexpected agony.
"Mary," he said, in a hoarse and broken voice, "I have a confession to make to you, and I must make it--about this dead woman, I mean.

I will not sail under false colours; you must know all the truth, and then judge." "Dear me," she answered; "this sounds dreadfully tragic.

But I may as well tell you at once that I have already heard some gossip." "I daresay; but you cannot have heard all the truth, for it was known only to me and her." Now, do what she would to prevent it, her alarm showed itself in Mary's eyes.
"What am I to understand ?" she said in a low voice--and she looked a question.
"Oh, no!" he answered with a faint smile; "nothing at all----" "Not that you have been embracing her, for instance?
That, I understand, is Eliza Layard's story." "No, no; I never did such a thing in my life." A little sigh of relief broke from Mary's lips.