"Not because I believe in the habit of unburdening one's conscience, but because there is something you have a right to know--" "I--?
A right to know ?" Her lips paled.
"Yes.

A right to know." With a sudden access of feeling he dropped her hands and turned towards the window, where the last glimmer of the wintry twilight showed through the soft silk curtains.
"I am putting myself in your hands," he said, steadily.

"I am jeopardizing myself utterly by what I am going to say; but it seems to me the only way by which I can make--well, can patch up some poor amends-- "I may be presumptuous, but I believe--I think--that I have stood for something in your eyes." He turned and looked at her.

But in the mingled dusk and firelight only the pale outline of her face was visible.
"Enid!" he cried, with sudden resolution, "it must be faced.

It must be said.