Please sit down again."
She obeyed him.
The curtain of hanging leaves and flowers had fallen into place
again; the shadowed tracery was on her dress and on the floor once
more.
He stood in front of her and told her his story, as Sir John had
suggested. He threw no romance into it--attempted no extenuation--
but related the plain, simple facts of the last few years with the
semi-cynical suggestion of humour that was sometimes his. And the
cloak of pride that had fallen upon his shoulders made him hide much
that was good, while he dragged forward his own shortcomings. She
listened in silence. At times there hovered round her lips a smile.
It usually came when he represented himself in a bad light, and
there was a suggestion of superior wisdom in it, as if she knew
something of which he was ignorant.
He was never humble. It was not a confession. It was not even an
explanation, but only a story--a very lame story indeed--which
gained nothing by the telling. And he was not the hero of it.
And all came about as wise old Sir John Meredith had predicted. It
is not our business to record what Jocelyn said. Women--the best of
them--have some things in their hearts which can only be said once
to one person. Men cannot write them down; printers cannot print
them.
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