"Nothing!" said Daphne. She had made an involuntary protesting sound.

"He said he hoped to bring you back with him. I asked how long since he had
seen you; and when he told me five years, I remarked that he had better not
be too sure. 'But you don't know her,' he said; 'she is truth itself, and
courage. By as many times as she has refused to listen to me, I am sure of
her now.' I did not gather somehow that you were--engaged to him, else I
hope I should not have gone so far. As it was, I kept on persisting--like
a cynic who has no one of his own to be sure of--that he had better
not be too sure! He might have seen, I thought then, that it was half
chaff and half envy with me; but it was a nervous time, and I was less
than sympathetic, less than a friend to him. And now I am loaded with
friendship's honors, and you have come yourself to prove me in the wrong.
You punish me by converting me to the truth."

"What truth?" asked Daphne, so low that Thane had to guess her question.

"Have you not proved to me that some women do have memories?"

Daphne could not meet his eyes; but she suspected him of something
like sarcasm. She could not be sure, for his tone was agitating in its
tenderness.

"All things considered," she said slowly, "does it not strike you as rather
a costly conversion?"

"I don't say I was worth it, nor do I see just how it benefits me
personally to have learned my lesson."

He rose, and stood where he could look at her,--an unfair advantage,