"You've probably got a sweetheart in the States somewhere--a nice girl,
a pretty young thing who goes to church and thinks you're a great man,
perhaps? Is it so?"

"I am not worthy," he began, choked suddenly, then finished--"to breathe
the same air!"

"That's quite right," Lady Mount-Rhyswicke assured him. "Think what
you'd think of her if she'd got herself into the same sort of scrape by
doin' the things you've been doin'! And remember _that_ if you ever feel
impatient with her, or have any temptations to superiority in times to
come. And yet"--for the moment she spoke earnestly--"you go back to your
little girl, but don't you tell her a word of this. You couldn't
even tell her that meetin' you has helped me, because she wouldn't
understand."

"Nor do I. I can't."

"Oh, it's simple. I saw that if I was gettin' down to where I was
robbin' babies and orphans...." The cab halted. "Here's your corner. I
told him only to go round the block and come back. Good-by. I'm off for
Amalfi. It's a good place to rest."

He got out dazedly, and the driver cracked his whip over the little
horse; but Mellin lifted a detaining hand.

"_A spet_," called Lady Mount-Rhyswicke to the driver. "What is it, Mr.
Mellin?"