Grimshaw remained at the Manor for about half an hour after Wilverley had left. To his astonishment he discovered that the fire, from the point of view of Lady Selina’s servants, was regarded as a blessing in disguise. An enormous quantity of rubbish had been destroyed, the accumulation of generations. It appeared, also, that dry-rot in the ancient timbers had caused much anxiety and expense. And an immense roof had leaked persistently.

None the less, Grimshaw gazed at the still smoking ruins with sorrowful eyes. A clever architect would be able to preserve these. The significance of this penetrated into Grimshaw’s mind. Certain elementary things seemed destined to endure in a world of chance and decay. Insensibly, he began to compare persons with things. The insoluble problem of heredity and environment presented itself. It was difficult to envisage Lady Selina Chandos in a new house. Would modern improvements affect her? He remembered that Cicely had denied the possibility of earthquakes in English villages. And within a few hours an earthquake had taken place, something cataclysmic, to which, willy-nilly, the lady of the manor must adapt herself.

He returned to his lodgings to swallow food without appetite. Then he went to the dispensary to prepare Lady Selina’s sleeping-draught. In the dispensary word came to him that Dr. Pawley wished to see him, not—so it turned out—professionally. Indeed, the exciting events seemed to have had a tonic effect. Pawley, very alert, had become a lively note of interrogation, asking eager questions, interpolating shrewd remarks, alive to the humours of the situation but full of sympathy for Lady Selina.

“Has it been an eye-opener?” he asked.

“I hope so.”

“I suppose I know the dear woman better than anybody else, better, perhaps, than she knows herself. She has all the virtues of her class—fortitude, courtesy, sincerity and pluck.”

“You can say as much of some of her dependents. Isaac Burble, for instance, and old Stimson.”

“True. Extremes meet. I like to think of that. The trouble becomes acute when extremes don’t meet. In a sense I have always regarded her as short-circuited.”

Grimshaw nodded. Pawley’s never-failing interest in others invited confidence. And his advice would be sincere and helpful. The impulse to tell his secret became irresistible. He began tentatively:

“The breaking of the Wilverley-Chandos engagement rather upset you, didn’t it?”

“For the moment. I was so sorry for the mother. And it meant so much to the village. We old bachelors are confirmed matchmakers. Yes, yes; it upset me, but I can admit frankly that I left little Cicely out of my reckoning. She didn’t want a good fellow, and she cut loose from him. The why and wherefore are beyond me, but the essential fact suffices.”

“Perhaps she cared for somebody else?”

Pawley shook his head.

“No, no; in that case I venture to think that I should have had an inkling, eh? Since she came out, the child has met nobody—nobody.”

Grimshaw laughed.

“Exactly. Now be prepared for a shock. I’m nobody. In Lady Selina’s eyes that describes me to a dot.”

Pawley was not dense, but, for an instant, he was befogged, and Grimshaw realised this, and with it the inevitable conclusion that even his friend and colleague regarded him, like Lady Selina, as negligible. He smiled derisively: and the smile was illuminating. Pawley understood.

“Good Lord! I’ve been blind.”

“There wasn’t much to see. I was blind myself till yesterday. And then, suddenly, I saw. I’ll add this to you. I fell in love with her five minutes after I met her. When I scraped that midge out of her eye the big thing happened. I fought against it. Yesterday I succumbed. She—she cares for me, bless her!”

“You mean it’s settled?”

“Settled! I wonder if anything more unsettling to all concerned could have happened.”

Pawley remained silent, a silence misapprehended by Grimshaw, who reflected, naturally enough, that congratulation was deemed impossible. But the elder man had embarked upon a long pilgrimage at racing speed. He was whirled back to those far-off days when he, a nobody, aspired to enter a guarded pleasaunce, with its conspicuous notice: “Trespassers Beware!” He had entered it and left it—alone. Ever since he had remained alone a festering fact. His kindly eyes rested upon Grimshaw’s tired face. He held out his thin hand.

“Can I help you to win through?”

His sympathy was so unexpected after a long silence that Grimshaw stammered a reply:

“You—you think I am w-w-worthy?”

Pawley gripped the hand in his.

“If you can ask that question sincerely, you are. I take it Lady Selina doesn’t know?”

Grimshaw plunged into fluent speech. When he finished, Pawley was in possession of what had passed between the lovers, of the compromise exacted by Cicely, of its effect upon Grimshaw. He listened with pursed-up lips and frowning brows. Then he delivered his considered judgment:

“You are stumbling along in ruts. Where have they led me? Where have they led Goodrich? Come out of them, my dear fellow. Cicely is wrong. But there is every excuse for her.”

“Then Lady Selina is not to be ‘spared’?”

Pawley made a deprecating gesture.

“Has Omnipotence spared her? The longer I live, Grimshaw, the more amazed I am at human fallibility. We mean well, most of us, and we do ill. And ill follows our benevolent efforts. Per contra, good rises out of evil. Anyway, compromise has been the curse of my life.” He paused, adding in a lower tone: “Compromise came between me and the woman I loved. It was too much for both of us. Be honest with Lady Selina. It’s your best chance. In her heart, and it’s a big heart, she must have a measure of contempt for poor old Goodrich and me, because we have kowtowed to her.”

“If I could get at her heart——I have a weapon——”

“A weapon?” Pawley winced at the word. “What sort of weapon?”

“It would lose some of its edge if I showed it to you, I shall not use it unless I am driven to do so.”

Pawley was too courteous to ask for further explanation.