Clytie held Winifred protectingly with one arm, soothing her, mingling words of comfort with outbursts of self-reproach and unrighteous indignation. As Jack slipped away she made an impulsive movement forward, but Winifred restrained her. “How dare you let him go?” she exclaimed, turning her anger upon Kent. “If it had not been for you I would have given him a lesson he'd have remembered all his life. To do a work of devilry like that and not be punished! I'll set the police upon him!” “No, no!” murmured Winifred. “I will. What are reformatories for? Go and call a policeman, Mr. Kent. It is the least you can do!” “I shall leave him alone,” replied Kent. “It would not do him any good and it would not do Miss Marchpane any good. He'll never come here again, and I should advise you not to introduce any more of his sort into your studio. When a child of the flesh and the devil gets hold of a thing of the spirit, the spiritual suffers.” “I do not wish to be lectured,” said Clytie stonily. “I am sorry if I have offended you, Miss Davenant,” replied Kent. “I have the sincerest sympathy with Miss Marchpane for her loss, and I would do anything in the world to help her or you; and so--good-morning.” Kent worked hard that day at the Museum. He was troubled over the morning's occurrence. He was conscious that he had acted rightly in acquiescing in Winifred's counsel of mercy, but he had a vague, inarticulate regret that he had not pleased Clytie. He resolutely set himself to forget everything in his work and finished earlier than usual. On his way out he met his friend Wither in the great hall. “I have come to carry you off to the club to dine and there to reason with you,” said the small, gnomelike man. “They are spring-cleaning at home and the place reeks of freshness and innocence. Greene and Fairfax like it; they say it's healthy. I prefer the accumulated and mellowed deposit of winter. It's as bad as washing a meerschaum. Anyhow, it's got to get coloured a bit, and until it does I clear out and you are coming to clear with me.” “Very well,” replied Kent; “I will waste part of an evening upon you--to prevent you wasting it yourself more sinfully. You were lucky to catch me; I was just going.” The policeman at the door saluted Kent as he passed out. “That ought to have been for me,” said Wither. “I am far the more reputable-looking of the two.” Kent laughed good-humouredly and grasped his ash stick sturdily in his gloveless hands. The contrast between the dandified elegance of Wither's dress and his own careless, loose attire appealed to his sense of the humorous. “I'll walk a few yards behind you if you like,” he said, repeating a familiar and time-honoured jest between them.