His smile was not very genuine, but he met her gaze steadily enough.
"It was rather nice of Mrs.Ferrall to ask me," he said, "after the mess I made of things last spring." "Grace Ferrall is a dear," she replied.
After a moment he ventured: "I suppose you saw it in the papers." "I think so; I had completely forgotten it; your name seemed to--" "I see." Then, listlessly: "I couldn't have ventured to remind you that--that perhaps you might not care to be so amiable--" "Mr.Siward," she said impulsively, "you are nice to me! Why shouldn't I be amiable?
It was--it was--I've forgotten just how dreadfully you did behave--" "Pretty badly." "Very ?" "They say so." "And what is your opinion Mr.Siward ?" "Oh, I ought to have known better." Something about him reminded her of a bad small boy; and suddenly in spite of her better sense, in spite of her instinctive caution, she found herself on the very verge of laughter.

What was it in the man that disarmed and invited a confidence--scarcely justified it appeared?
What was it now that moved her to overlook what few overlook--not the fault, but its publicity?
Was it his agreeable bearing, his pleasant badinage, his amiably listless moments of preoccupation, his youth that appealed to her--aroused her charity, her generosity, her curiosity?
And had other people continued to accept him, too?
What would Quarrier think of his presence at Shotover?
She began to realise that she was a little afraid of Quarrier's opinions.

And his opinions were always judgments.

However Grace Ferrall had thought it proper to ask him, and that meant social absolution.

As far as that went she also was perfectly ready to absolve him if he needed it.