"Before telling me again," she continued, speaking with difficulty, "what you've told me already, I want to say that I can only listen to it on one condition."
"Which is—?"
"That your own conscience is at peace with itself."
There was a sudden startled toss of the head, but he answered, bravely:
"Is one's conscience ever at peace with itself? A woman's, perhaps; but a man's—!"
He shook his head with that wistful smile of contrition which is already a plea for pardon.
"I'm not speaking of life in general, but of something in particular. I want you to understand, before you ask me—what you've come to ask, that you couldn't make one woman happy while you're doing another a great wrong."
He was sure now of what was in store for him, and braced himself for his part. He was one of those men who need but to see peril to see also the way of meeting it. He stood for a minute, very straight and erect, like a soldier before a court-martial—a culprit whose guilt is half excused by his very manliness.
"I have wronged women. They've wronged me, too. All I can do to show I'm sorry for it is—not to give them the same sort of offence again."
"I'm thinking of one woman—one woman in particular."