The prodigal had been at last admitted to Prior Street on a footing of his own. He blossomed out in perpetual previous engagements whenever he was asked to dine; but he had made a bargain with Majendie by which he claimed unlimited opportunity for seeing Edie as the price of his promise to reform. This time Majendie was obliged to intimate to him that his reform must be regarded as the price of his admission. For, this time, in the long year of his exile, the prodigal's prodigality had exceeded the measure of all former years. And, to his intense surprise, he found that Majendie drew the line somewhere. In consequence of this, and of the "entanglement" to which Majendie had once referred, the aspect of Gorst's affairs was peculiarly dark and threatening. In the spring of the year they gathered to their climax. One afternoon Gorst appeared in Majendie's office, sat down with a stricken air, and appealed to his friend to help him out. "I thought you _were_ out," said Majendie. "So I am. It's because I'm so well out that I'm in for it. Evans's have turned her off. She's down on her luck--and--well--you see, _now_ she wants me to marry her." "I see. Well--" "Well, of course I can't. Maggie's a dear little thing, but--you see--I'm not the first." "You're sure of that?" "Certain. She confessed, poor girl. Besides, I knew it. I'm not a brute. I'd marry her if I'd been the first and only one. I'd marry her if I were sure I'd be the last. I'd marry her, as it is, if I cared enough for her. Always provided I could keep her. But you know--" "You don't care and you can't keep her. What are you going to do for her?" Gorst in his anguish glared at Majendie. "I can't do anything. That's the damnedest part of it. I'm simply cleaned out, till I get a berth somewhere." Majendie looked grave. This time the prodigal had devoured his living. "You're going to leave her there, then. Is that it?" "No, it isn't. There's another fellow who'd marry her, if she'd have him, but she won't. That's it." "Because she's fond of you, I suppose?" "Oh, I don't know about being fond," said Gorst sulkily. "She's fond of anybody." "And what do you want me to do?" "I'd be awfully glad if you'd go and see her." "See her?" "Yes, and explain the situation. I can't. She won't let me. She goes mad when I try. She keeps on worrying at it from morning to night. When I don't go, she writes. And it knocks me all to pieces." "If she's that sort, what good do you suppose I'll do by seeing her?" "Oh, she'll listen to reason from any one but me. And there are things you can say to her that I can't. I say, will you?" "I will if you like. But I don't suppose it will do one atom of good. It never does, you know. Where does the woman live?" He took down the address on the visiting-card that Gorst gave him.