“Anyone might have felt like that, and acted just the same under the circumstances,” said Katherine, pitifully.  This confession was so utterly different from anything she had expected to hear that her heart grew lighter in spite of herself.

Mary laughed in a dreary, mirthless fashion.  “Do you know it is a bitter humiliation to me to owe my life to Jervis Ferrars?” she said brusquely.

“Why?” demanded Katherine, the question dragged from her in spite of herself.

A wave of hot colour surged over Mary’s face; it was not often she blushed, but now she was crimson.  “I don’t think I can tell you that,” she replied unsteadily.  “In any case it is immaterial to the story, except that he once asked me a boon I would not grant; and for that I have been sorry ever since, which shows the contrary-mindedness of women, don’t you think?”

Katherine nodded; speak she could not.  This was worse than anything she had expected.  Mrs. Burton had suggested that Mary was in love with Jervis, but here was Mary herself plainly intimating that Jervis had once asked for her love, but that she had refused him, only to regret her refusal ever since.

“He is such a good fellow,” went on Mary, with a yearning note in her voice which stabbed Katherine like actual pain.  “When Father asked him about the affair in the tidehole, he never once said anything about my fearful panic, which so nearly cost him his life; and the very fact of his reticence has made me feel the meanest creature on the face of the earth.  I can scarcely look my father in the face, and when he pities me for having been in such sore straits I feel like sinking through the couch from very shame.”

“Why don’t you tell Mr. Selincourt then?” asked Katherine bluntly.  “He would understand how panic had unnerved you, and certainly he would not judge you harshly.”

“I can’t tell him; I am not brave enough.  I told you I was a coward, and so I am, especially in matters of that sort.  It is an awful thing to me to lose anyone’s good opinion.  My pride, I suppose; but really I can’t help it,” Mary answered with a shrug.

“Yet you have told me,” said Katherine, forcing a smile.  “Were you not afraid of losing my good opinion, or was it that you did not care?”

“I was just desperate; I had to own up to someone, and so, from love of contrast I suppose, I turned to you, who are always brave,” Mary said.

Katherine shook her head:  “You make a great mistake; I am a horrible coward underneath.  I think all girls are; it is one of the weaknesses of our nature which neither training nor hardship will overcome.”

“Do you expect me to believe you when you talk like that?” asked Mary.  “What about that time when you got on to the ice to get Jervis Ferrars out of Oily Dave’s flooded house?  Do you think a girl who was a coward could have done that?”

“I could not have done it if I had stayed to think about it,” replied Katherine, a soft flush stealing into her cheeks.  “But there was no time to think about oneself, the thing had to be done quickly, so it was easy enough.  If I had set out from home that morning, knowing what was in front of me, I could not possibly have faced it, of that I am quite sure.”