"Dear lady," said he very gently, "if I offended you a while ago—forgive me—Cleone."
"Indeed," said she, looking away from him; "it would seem I must be always forgiving you, Mr. Beverley."
"Why, surely it is a woman's privilege to forgive, Cleone—and my name—"
"And a man's prerogative to be forgiven, I suppose, Mr. Beverley."
"When he repents as I do, Cleone; and my—"
"Oh! I forgive you," she sighed.
"Yet you still walk very fast."
"It must be nearly ten o'clock."
"I suppose so," said Barnabas, "and you will, naturally, be anxious to reach home again."
"Home," she said bitterly; "I have no home."