Gregory was silent, and Fane was trying to measure the extent of his own
suffering, and to get the whole bearing of the incident in his mind. In
the end his attempt was a failure. He asked Gregory, "And do you think
you've done just right by me?"

"I've done right by nobody," said Gregory, "not even by myself; and I can
see that it was my own pleasure I had in mind. I must tell her the truth,
and then I must leave this place."

"I suppose you want I should keep it quiet," said Fane.

"I don't ask anything of you."

"And she wouldn't," said Fane, after reflection. "But I know she'd be
glad of it, and I sha'n't say anything. Of course, she never can care for
me; and--there's my hand with my word, if you want it." Gregory silently
took the hand stretched toward him and Fane added: "All I'll ask is that
you'll tell her I wouldn't have presumed to send her the shoes. She
wouldn't be mad at you for it."

Gregory took the box, and after some efforts to speak, he went away. It
was an old trouble, an old error, an old folly; he had yielded to impulse
at every step, and at every step he had sinned against another or against
himself. What pain he had now given the simple soul of Fane; what pain he
had given that poor child who had so mistaken and punished the simple
soul! With Fane it was over now, but with Clementina the worst was
perhaps to come yet. He could not hope to see the girl before morning,
and then, what should he say to her? At sight of a lamp burning in Mrs.
Atwell's room, which was on a level with the veranda where he was
walking, it came to him that first of all he ought to go to her, and