St. Quentin looked at Sydney’s earnest face in silence for a moment, then spoke¹ abruptly²:
“Sit down. I’ve a good mind to tell you a story which will make you understand—well, a good many things—among others what a contemptible³ cad I really am. It isn’t a particularly pretty story, but you may as well know all about it.”
“I don’t believe one word Sir Algernon said about you,” she answered, flushing. “Don’t tell me anything, St. Quentin. I don’t want to hear!”
“A part of what he said was true, none the less,” he answered steadily⁴. “Listen. You know Bridge is five or six years my senior, and he patronised me when I was a little chap in turn-down collars at Eton. Of course he left years before I did; but when I went into the Guards he was a captain in my regiment⁵,
[198]
 and the old intimacy⁶ grew up again. I was a young fool and flattered by the friendship, as I thought it, of a man who had seen the world. Well, luckily you’ve had no chance of knowing what fools youngsters in the Guards can make of themselves!
“My father paid my debts again and again, until he grew sick of it, and said I must resign my commission: he couldn’t stand any more.
“I was sobered by that, for my father and mother were awfully⁷ cut up about it, and I knew they had treated me far better than ever I deserved. I did try to pull up then, and pretty soon—no, don’t stir the fire, I like the dark—I got to know a girl ... it doesn’t matter who, except that she was a great deal too good for me.... She was interested in the cottages, like you are, Sydney. You remind me of her now and then, and she was just eighteen when first I knew her, nine years ago.
“Well, my extravagance had crippled my father, and he couldn’t do half he wanted for his cottages. She minded that a good deal, I remember. I felt quite certain that if she would only be engaged to me, I should find it impossible to be reckless or

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