must, for once. Allan, you have ways--mannerisms--that are unfortunate.
They raised in me a conviction that you were not genuine--that you were
somehow false. Don't let it hurt now, dear, for see--this one little
unstudied, impetuous act of devotion, simple and instinctive with your
generous heart, has revealed your true self to me as nothing else could
have done. Oh, don't you see how you have given me at last what I had to
have, if we were to live on together--something in you to _hold_ to--a
foundation to rest upon--something I can know in my heart of hearts is
stable--despite any outward, traitorous _seeming_! Now forever I can be
loving, and loyal, in spite of all those signs which I see at last are
misleading."

Again and again she sought to envelope him with acceptable praises,
while he gazed fondly at her from that justified pride in his own
stanchness--murmuring, "Nance, you please me--you _please_ me!"

"Don't you see, dear? I couldn't reach you before. You gave me nothing
to believe in--not even God. That seeming lack of genuineness in you
stifled my soul. I could no longer even want to be good--and all that
for the lack of this dear foolish bit of realness in you."

"No one can know better than I that my nature is a faulty one,
Nance--"

"Say unfortunate, Allan--not faulty. I shall never again believe a fault
of you. How stupid a woman can be, how superficial in her judgments--and
what stupids they are who say she is intuitive! Do you know, I believed
in Bernal infinitely more than I can tell you, and Bernal made me
believe in everything else--in God and goodness and virtue and truth--in
all the good things we like to believe in--yet see what he did!"