And what a steadfast belief she had shown from first to last in his innocence, against overwhelming odds! Wentworth did not know till he met Fay that such women existed.

Women he was aware were an enigma.

Men could not fathom them.

They were fickle, mysterious creatures, on whom no sane man could rely, whom the wisest owned they could not understand, capable alternately of devotion and treachery, acting from instincts that men did not share, moved by sudden, amazing impulses that men could not follow.
But could a woman like Fay, who towered head and shoulders above the ordinary run of women, removed to a height apart from their low level of pettiness and vanity, by her simplicity and nobility and capacity for devotion--_could such a woman love a second time ?_ The thirst to be loved, to be the object of an exquisite tenderness, what man has not, consciously or unconsciously longed for that?
What woman has not had her dream of giving that and more, full measure, running over?
To find favour in a woman's eyes a man need only do his stupid bungling best.

But it is doubtful whether Wentworth had a best of any kind in him to do.
At twenty-five he would not have risked as much for love as even cautious men of robuster fibre will still ruefully but determinedly risk in the forties.