The news of Jimmy's engagement spread rapidly. Dr. Gregg heard it within twenty-four hours, and mentioned it the same evening to Mrs. Richards, the lady whose bow Jimmy had failed to acknowledge when he was coming out of the hotel.

Mrs. Richards shook her head over the tidings. "I cannot say I am pleased to hear it, Doctor. Mr. Grierson can be very nice, and I am told he is very clever; but still I am sorry for Miss Farlow. He has an unfortunate failing."

"Do you mean he drinks?" the doctor asked bluntly.

The lady nodded. "I, myself, have seen him under the influence of liquor, before mid-day; and my maid tells me it's a common subject of conversation amongst the lower classes in the town. I understand a great many writers have the same weakness," she added, grimly.

Dr. Gregg snorted. "Nonsense, madam. When Grierson is married he will be as steady as your own sons. I know him very well, and have a great respect for him. The girl ought to be proud. He is going to make a big name for himself; whilst as for the lower classes in this town, and the upper classes as well, for that matter, their chief object in life seems to be to make up and spread lying tales."

"Dr. Gregg, was more brusque than ever to-day," Mrs. Richards remarked to her husband an hour later. "Really, he is such a bear that if one could trust Dr. Hart I would have him instead. It's not nice to be stormed at and practically called a scandalmonger, especially when I know that what I was saying is true."

Her husband took her complaints lightly, remembering that only a year before that same bear of a doctor had snatched their youngest child out of the grip of death, and knowing well that, so long as the old man remained in practice, his wife would take his word before that of the most famous specialist in London. "What was the trouble with Gregg this time, Kate?" he asked, smiling.

"It was over Miss Farlow's engagement," she answered. "I was saying that I'm sorry for the girl, because I'm sure young Grierson drinks; and the doctor got rude about it at once."

"Perhaps you were not very wise, because Grierson is a friend of his, as well as a patient; but still, I am afraid what you said was true. I don't know the man personally; but Bateman and Knowles and one or two men who do know him say the same. I hear he's been better lately, though, since the Grimmers took Drylands. Perhaps he was lonely, or something like that. He knew very few people then, and it must have been horribly dull for him."

"I don't see that there is any excuse in that." Mrs. Richards' voice was unusually severe. "He could have known people if he liked. Mr. Button, the vicar, called on him; but he's never been to church once in over a year, at least he never went until Miss Farlow came on the scene."

Her husband smiled. "Perhaps she's converted him," he suggested.

But Mrs. Richards was in earnest. "Conversions of that sort never last," she went on. "He will be just as bad again after marriage, when the novelty has worn off. I am sure I would never allow a man of that sort to marry one of our daughters."

Mr. Richards smiled again. "You might mislead a stranger by that statement, Kate, seeing that they are both married already."

Then the dinner gong sounded, and he straightway forgot all about the matter; but his wife could not get it out of her mind. Her dearest girl friend had married a man who had turned out to be an incurable drunkard, and the tragedy of those two ruined lives came back to her vividly, so vividly in fact that she determined to call at Drylands on the following day, nominally to offer her congratulations to Vera Farlow, really to see if she could not whisper a word of warning into Mrs. Grimmer's ear.

"Mrs. Grimmer is not at home," the servant said, in answer to her inquiry.

Mrs. Richards began to open her card case, then, acting on a sudden resolution, she looked up again and asked, "Is Miss Farlow in?"

"Yes, madam," the maid answered.

Mrs. Richards closed her card case with a snap, and followed the maid into the drawing-room.

Vera looked so happy that for a moment the visitor hesitated, then the very innocence and gentleness of the girl strengthened her resolution, clinched it, and she saw her path of duty more clearly than ever. Deliberately, she sought for an opening.

"Have you known Mr. Grierson long?" she asked.

"Not very long, really," Vera answered. "I met him first nearly two years ago, at dinner. But after that, I did not see him again until I came down here with the Grimmers. Still, he's a very old friend of Ethel's—Mrs. Grimmer, I mean—and his people are parishioners of my father's."

"Does he often go down to see his people?" Mrs. Richards asked, a new suspicion breaking on her mind.

Vera shook her head. "He's been so busy, you see; and it's a long way; in fact, I don't think he has been there for over a year."

Mrs. Richards' last doubt had disappeared now. So Jimmy's people knew of his failing and would not receive him in their homes. Evidently, it was time that someone interfered to save this girl.

"It is sometimes a great risk marrying a very clever man. They are not always too steady."

Vera, who was rather bored with her visitor, was staring out of the window, wondering where Jimmy was, but now she looked round sharply, a glint of anger in her eyes.

"I am not afraid of that in Mr. Grierson's case," she answered coldly. "Perhaps he is one of the exceptions, that is, if the rule itself is not one of those silly ideas people get hold of and insist on believing in for no reason at all, except perhaps because they're jealous."

Mrs. Richards coloured slightly, but she did not take offence. Rather, her heart went out in sympathy to this girl whose loyalty was likely to be so ill repaid.

"My dear," she said very gently, "I came intending to warn you, because I was afraid no one else would have the courage to tell you. No, don't jump up. Let me finish. I am afraid, in fact, I am sure, that Mr. Grierson has that very failing we referred to. It is a matter of common knowledge here; and, though he may keep steady whilst you are about, I am sorry to say that the very first day after you went away last time, I myself saw him the worse for liquor."

Vera's first impulse was to do something theatrical, to ring for the servants to turn this abominable woman out, to rush out herself and find Jimmy and implore him to avenge the insult; but something in Mrs. Richards' manner checked her, and in the end she listened in silence, sitting very still with her hand in her lap.

When the other had done, she made one attempt at disbelief. "It's not true, it's not true," she murmured, then she went on, "Oh, say it isn't true. Do say so. Why did you come and tell me when I was so happy?"

There were tears in Mrs. Richards' eyes as she answered. "My dear, it's better to know now than when it's too late, when your life is ruined. If you want confirmation you had better make other inquiries. Ask Mr. Grierson himself. He cannot deny it."

To Vera's own astonishment, she let the visitor kiss her before they parted; in fact, she returned the kiss; and yet, when looking back on it afterwards, it seemed quite natural, for no one could have doubted the honesty of Mrs. Richards' purpose, even if they had doubted her statements. But Vera doubted neither. She knew the accusation was true; and when on Jimmy coming in a few moments later and finding her red-eyed and white-faced, she taxed him with it, he recognised the futility of denial, though he pleaded extenuating circumstances.

"I was miserable and lonely, and until I met you everything seemed to have gone to pieces. It will never happen again, darling, really it won't. You know that, don't you? surely you know it." He was fighting, not only for her love, but for his whole future, his position in society, the respect of his own class. If he lost her, he felt he would lose everything else which a Grierson holds dear. He would never have the heart to make another try.

"I don't know," she sighed at last. "I had such faith in you, and this has been such an awful shock. Oh, Jimmy, Jimmy, I could never have believed it."

Even in his misery, it struck him that she had believed it, very readily, and a hint of anger came into his bearing. After all, his promise of reformation, or rather the fact that he had already reformed, should have some weight with her. But she was judging him by the past, in which she had had no part. Still, he spoke gently, pleadingly.

"Vera, dear, you must forgive me. It will never happen again now that I have you to look after me. You will keep me straight."

But he struck the wrong chord, and she looked up almost indignantly. "You ought to be manly enough to keep straight by yourself, you ought never to have sunk as you have done. There can be no excuse for it, none whatever."

"And no forgiveness?" he asked very quietly. She covered her face with her hands again. "Oh, I don't know, I don't know. Everything seems so dreadful, and I shall be afraid to trust you. Go away now, and let me think it over quietly."

"Very well. I will come back after dinner. Meet me down by the summer-house." There was something masterful in his tone, and for a moment she felt inclined to obey; then her sense of injury came to her aid, and she shook her head.

"No, to-morrow morning at the earliest. I cannot decide so quickly."

Jimmy took his hat off the table. "Good-bye, then. I will come to-morrow morning." And he left the room without another word. As the door closed behind him, Vera stood up, straightened her hair in front of the glass on the mantelpiece, dabbed the tears out of her eyes with her handkerchief, and then went upstairs, holding her head rather erect, but otherwise showing no sign of emotion.

Jimmy filled his pipe whilst he went down the front steps, and as he rammed the tobacco into the bowl he noticed, with a cynical little smile, that his hand was perfectly steady. In his heart he did not believe that the quarrel would prove final, that she would break off the engagement on the grounds of his past failings. It was just a passing cloud, he told himself. Both of them would have been more upset had their love affair come to a sudden and abrupt close. He remembered how he had felt when he had parted from Lalage, the fever and the agony of it, the sense of utter desolation and hopelessness. And from that he came to think of Lalage herself. She had never turned on him because he drank. Far otherwise. The knowledge had made her more tender, more watchful over his comfort, more anxious to shield him from worries which might drive him into the power of his enemy. She had never blamed him, even by implication. And why? He knew the answer only too well. Because she had loved him. Now the fever, which the parting from Vera had failed to arouse, came on him again. His pipe went out, and, unconsciously, he quickened his steps, as was his way when deeply stirred.

Lalage loved him. Lalage loved him too well to turn on him. The words drummed through his brain with maddening persistency; and then, as a corollary to them, came the questions, "Did Vera love him well enough to take the risk, to give him a chance to run straight? Was he always to be the Black Sheep, and herd with others of his kind?"