only comes to the stricken and the incurably humiliated.

"What have you said to her?" asked Christine of Ferrol, "what have you
done to her?"

"I didn't do a thing, upon my soul. I didn't say a thing. She'd only
just come in."

"What did she say to you?"

"As near as I can remember, she said: 'You have been hurt, and I'm very
sorry. Why haven't you been to see me? I looked for you; but you didn't
come, and I thought you had forgotten me.'"

"What did she mean by that? How dared she!"

"See here, Christine," he said, laying his hand on her quivering
shoulder, "I didn't say much to her. I was over there one afternoon, the
afternoon I asked you to marry me. I drank a lot of liqueur; she looked
very pretty, and before she had a chance to say yes or no about it I
kissed her. Now that's a fact. I've never spent five minutes with her
alone since; I haven't even seen her since, until this morning. Now
that's the honest truth. I know it was scampish; but I never pretended
to be good. It is nothing for you to make a fuss about, because,
whatever I am--and it isn't much one way or another--I am all yours,
straight as a die, Christine. I suppose, if we lived together fifty
years, I'd probably kiss fifty women--once a year isn't a high average;
but those kisses wouldn't mean anything; and you, you, my girl"--he bent
his head down to her "why, you mean everything to me, and I wouldn't give
one kiss of yours for a hundred thousand of any other woman's in the