Jimmy's mind was in a fever as he walked home that night; in fact, he felt it would be useless to try to sleep, so he went on, past the cottage, past Drylands, where the lights were all out, right to the next village, three miles away. But whilst he stalked along he gradually grew calmer. Things seemed to become simpler, more easy to bear, and to understand. He saw Lalage now in a different light, and he felt that, as her character was partially cleared, so, in some subtle way, his own sin became less, and he need no longer have any compunction about asking Vera Farlow to be his wife.

True, for one wild moment, his old love for Lalage seemed to surge up within him; but he was passing Drylands on his way back at the time, and, as he glanced at the windows, the Grierson strain in him asserted itself triumphantly. He might pity and forgive Lalage; but his wife must be one whom he could take anywhere, introduce anywhere; there must be no horrible fear of the past coming to light again, and, possibly ruining, not only his own career, but that of his children as well. He thought of Lalage tenderly, but almost with condescension; and, when he turned in finally, Vera Farlow—who belonged to the Grierson world—was uppermost in his mind. Consequently, he slept well and awoke, not to brood over what Dr. Gregg had told him, but to speculate on a future in which Vera should play the main part.

Vera had money of her own, Jimmy knew that, and, unquestionably, the fact weighed with him, not from a sordid point of view, but because it made the risks of marriage so much smaller. There would be no fear of his wife being left penniless, dependent on the charity of relatives. As for his own prospects, he was inclined to take a rosy view of them. He had made a good start, and that, as he was well aware, was more than half the battle. Another year, and he ought to be earning enough to justify him in marrying.

It would be very pleasant to have his own house, a permanent home. Vera had plenty of friends, and he knew that there were many others who would be glad enough to meet the rising author. They would soon have a position, especially if, as seemed probable, Canon Farlow did get the first vacant bishopric.

Jimmy had not much fear as to what Vera's answer would be. They had got to know one another very well in that fortnight at Drylands, and much of her almost prim reserve had already disappeared. She was twenty-five, or thereabouts, quite old enough to know her own mind, and it was not likely that her father, having three other unmarried daughters on his hands, would offer any serious objection. May, too, would probably be pleased when she came to look at the matter in the right light, because, as he told himself with a cynical little smile, it would prove that the Lalage episode was definitely at an end. And then, for a moment, he thought of Lalage again, the Lalage of whom the doctor had told him, young, almost childish in her inexperience, sacrificing her innocence for the sake of her dying father. Suddenly he got up, feeling half choked. If only that man had not died after the motor smash, if only he had lived to suffer.

He walked up and down the little room several times, trying to regain his self-control, trying to put Lalage out of his mind, and to think only of Vera. But it was impossible. Phrases the doctor had used seemed to be engraved on his memory. Almost against his will, he found himself repeating them, and with them came a mental picture of Lalage's pitiful shame and grief when the real meaning of what she had done came home to her. And then the horror of it, the crowning tragedy of it all—her father had died in the end, and she had been driven to the streets of London.

He had thought he had forgotten, and now he found he remembered everything. He could see her with the mud squelching through her shoes, friendless, penniless, homeless, without either references or experience, tramping hour after hour in the rain, standing outside the shop window where the big kitchen stoves were on exhibition, trying to imagine that some of the heat from the fires was reaching her numbed body; and then someone spoke to her—oh, it was all too hideous.

He had intended putting in a hard day's work, starting a new novel, but there could be no question of that now. He picked up the morning paper and tried to read that, but, somehow, the pages seemed to be one huge blurr, and, when the letters did come into line, they always formed the word "Lalage." At last, in sheer desperation, he took his hat, shut up the cottage, and went into the town. In the smoking-room of the principal hotel, he met several men he knew slightly. As a rule, he would merely have nodded to them, but now the old craving for companionship was on him again, and he greeted them cordially, whilst, instead of the one drink he had intended to take, he had so many that he lost count. When, at last, he did come out, he was still sober so far as external appearance went; and yet perhaps because the sunlight was bright whilst the smoking-room had been dark, he failed to notice a carriage containing a couple of ladies whom he had met at Drylands. They bowed to him, and then, when he did not raise his hat, exchanged meaning glances.

The elder, Mrs. Richards, wife of a local magnate, put their thoughts into words. "We caught sight of him going in there two hours ago, and now he cannot see us. I had heard a rumour that there was that especial failing, but I had hoped it wasn't true. Now, however——" She was a kindly-natured woman, and she broke off with a sigh.

Her companion nodded. "I wonder if that nice Miss Farlow knows. Mrs. Grimmer hinted that an engagement was quite possible, and I think someone ought to warn the girl. It would be a dreadful thing if she found out too late."

Jimmy's outbreak was, however, of very short duration. Even as he walked back to the cottage Vera's influence, or rather, the thought of all that marriage with Vera would mean, reasserted itself, and the memory of Lalage began to grow dim again. After all, what was the good of making himself miserable about the dead past? It could not be changed, and so the best thing to do was to try and forget it, as far as possible. It was but a very poor compliment to Vera if, only the day after her departure, his mind was full of another woman.

He might pity Lalage, but he was not going to let the remembrance of her ruin his future. He had a prospect now of regaining what he had lost when he first met her, and he would be a fool to imperil that prospect by mere foolish sentiment. Moreover, he would leave that wretched whisky alone; it was a weak and idiotic habit to drink as he had been drinking, and the knowledge of it would shock Vera terribly. Men in her world, which was, after all, his own world too, did not do those things. He saw it now. Before the Grimmers came down it had been different. For a time, he had lost all ambition, all sense of self-respect; but contact with Ethel and Vera had changed all that, had brought out the dormant Grierson instincts, the passion for order and respectability, and the comforts of life, and he had grown to detest the old mode of existence.

One thing was certain; before he proposed to Vera he must break off all correspondence with Lalage. He told himself so, several times, and tried to think out the letter he would write. He would send her a cheque for a fair amount, so that she would have a reserve fund, and then—he would never hear of her again, never know if she were alive or dead, if she had enough food, or even if she were married. Suddenly, that same queer, choking sensation came back, and he got up quickly as if wanting air. He seemed to hear Lalage's cry on that most ghastly day of his life: "I did it all for you, Jimmy. I did it all for you."

And so, in the end, he compromised with his conscience, and wrote her a briefer letter than usual. Possibly, he might have been surprised had he known that Lalage cried herself to sleep over that same letter, though next day, and for many days after, until she heard again, she carried it in her dress through the long hours of drudgery in the little shop, and slept with it under her pillow at night. Jimmy's hand had touched that precious slip of paper.