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“What’s the matter?” he asked bluntly.

Nan was sitting with her feet on the fender, her eyes upon the flames. His question did not seem to surprise her.

“You wouldn’t understand,” she said, “if I were to tell you.”

“Well, you might as well give me the chance,” he responded. “My intelligence is up to the average, I dare say.”

She looked round at him with a faint smile.

“Oh, don’t be huffy, dear boy! Why should you? You want to know what is the matter? Well, I’ll tell you. I’m afraid–I’m horribly afraid–that I’ve made a great mistake.”

“You have?” said Jerry. “How? What do you mean?”

“I knew you would ask that,” she said, with a little, helpless gesture of the shoulders. “And it is just that that I can’t explain to you. You see, Jerry, I’ve only just begun to realize it myself.”

Jerry was staring at her blankly.

“Do you mean, that you wish you hadn’t come?” he said.

She nodded, rising suddenly from her chair.

“Oh, Jerry, don’t be vexed, though you’ve a perfect right. I’ve made a ghastly, a perfectly hideous mistake. I–I can’t think how I ever came to do it. But–but I wouldn’t mind so frightfully if it weren’t for you. That’s what troubles me most–to have made a horrible mess of my life, and to have dragged you into it.” Her voice shook, and she broke off for a moment, biting her lips. Then: “Oh, Jerry,” she wailed, “I’ve done a dreadful thing–a dreadful thing! Don’t you see it–what he will think of me–how he will despise me?”

The last words came muffled through her hands. Her head was bowed against the chimney-piece.

Jerry was nonplussed. He rose somewhat awkwardly, and drew near the bowed figure.

“But, my dear girl,” he said, laying a slightly hesitating hand upon her shoulder, “what the devil does it matter what he thinks? Surely you don’t–you can’t care–care the toss of a half-penny?”

But here she amazed him still further.

“I do, Jerry, I do!” she whispered vehemently. “He’s horrid–oh, he’s horrid. But I can’t help caring. I wanted him to think the very worst possible of me before I came. But now–but now–Then too, there’s you,” she ended irrelevantly. “What could they do to you, Jerry? Could they put you in prison?”

“Great Scott, no!” said Jerry. “You needn’t cry over me. I always manage to fall on my feet. And, anyhow, it isn’t a hanging matter. I say, cheer up, Nan, old girl! Don’t you think you’d better go to bed? No? Well, let me play you something cheerful, then. I’ve never seen you in the dumps before. And I don’t like it. I quite thought this would be one of our red-letter days. Look up, I say! I believe you’re crying.”

Nan was not crying, but such was the concern in his voice that she raised her head and smiled to reassure him.

“You’re very, very good to me, Jerry,” she said earnestly. “And oh, I do hope I haven’t got you into trouble!”

“Don’t you worry your head about me,” said Jerry cheerfully. “You’re tired out, you know. You really ought to go to bed. Let’s have something rousing, with a chorus, and then we’ll say good-night.”

He took up his banjo again, and dashed without preliminary into the gay strains of “The Girl I Left Behind Me.”

He sang with a gaiety that even Nan did not imagine to be feigned, and, lest lack of response should again damp his spirits, she forced herself to join in the refrain. Faster and faster went Jerry’s fingers, faster and faster ran the song, his voice and Nan’s mingling, till at last he broke off with a shout of laughter, and sprang to his feet.

“There! That’s the end of our soiree, and I’m not going to keep you up a minute longer. I wonder if we’re snowed up yet. We’ll have some fun to-morrow, if we are. I say, look at the time! Good-night! Good-night!”