“'And there he told you that he loved you, and explained everything?'
“'You're quite right,' says she, 'that's just what happened. And then he kissed me for the first and last time, and now he's on his way to America.'
“'On his way to America?' says I, stopping still in the middle of the street.
“'To find his wife,' she says. 'He's pretty well ashamed of himself for not having tried to do it before. I gave him one or two hints how to set about it—he's not over smart—and I've got an idea he will discover her.' She dropped her joking manner, and gave my arm a little squeeze. She'd have flirted with her own grandfather—that's my opinion of her.
“'He was really nice,' she continues. 'I had to keep lecturing myself, or I'd have been sorry for him. He told me it was his love for me that had shown him what a wretch he had been. He said he knew I didn't care for him two straws—and there I didn't contradict him—and that he respected me all the more for it. I can't explain to you how he worked it out, but what he meant was that I was so good myself that no one but a thoroughly good fellow could possibly have any chance with me, and that any other sort of fellow ought to be ashamed of himself for daring even to be in love with me, and that he couldn't rest until he had proved to himself that he was worthy to have loved me, and then he wasn't going to love me any more.'
“'It's a bit complicated,' says I. 'I suppose you understood it?'
“'It was perfectly plain,' says she, somewhat shortly, 'and, as I told him, made me really like him for the first time.'
“'It didn't occur to him to ask you why you had been flirting like a volcano with a chap you didn't like,' says I.
“'He didn't refer to it as flirtation,' says she. 'He regarded it as kindness to a lonely man in a strange land.'
“'I think you'll be all right,' says I. 'There's all the makings of a good husband in him—seems to be simple-minded enough, anyhow.'