As it happened, the prodigal's conscience was by no means easy. He called in Prior Street that evening to learn the result of his friend's intervention. He submitted humbly to Majendie's judgment of his conduct. He agreed that he had been a brute to Maggie, that he might certainly do worse than marry her, and that his best reason for not marrying her was his knowledge that Maggie was ten times too good for him. He was only disposed to be critical of his friend's diplomacy when he learned that Majendie had not succeeded in persuading Maggie to marry Mr. Mumford. But, in the end, he allowed himself to be convinced of the futility, not to say the indecency, of pressing Mr. Mumford upon the girl at the moment of her fine renunciation. He admitted that he had known all along that Maggie had her own high innocence. And when he realised the extent to which Majendie had "got him out of it," his conscience was roused by a salutary shock of shame. But it was to Edith that he presented the perfection of his penitence. From his stillness and abasement she gathered that, this time, her prodigal had fallen far. That night, before his departure, he confirmed her sad suspicions. "It's awfully good of you," he said stiffly, "to let me come again." "Good of me? Charlie!" Her eyes and voice reproached him for this strained formality. "Yes. Mrs. Majendie's perfectly right. I've justified her bad opinion of me." "I don't know that you've justified it. I don't know what you've done. No more does she, my dear. And you didn't think, did you, that Walter and I were going to give you up?" "I'd have forgiven you if you had." "I couldn't have forgiven myself, or Walter." "Oh, Walter--if it hadn't been for him I should have gone to pieces this time. He's pulled me out of the tightest place I ever was in." "I'm sure he was very glad to do it." "I wish to goodness I could do the same for him." "Why do you say that, Charlie?" The prodigal became visibly embarrassed. He seemed to be considering the propriety of a perfect frankness. "I say, you don't mind my asking, do you? Has anything gone wrong with him and Mrs. Majendie?" "What makes you think so?" "Well, you see, I've got a sort of notion that she doesn't understand him. She's never realised in the least the stuff he's made of. He's the finest man I know on God's earth, and somehow, it strikes me that she doesn't see it." "Not always, I'm afraid." "Well--see here--you'll tell her, won't you, what he's done for me? That ought to open her eyes a bit. You can give me away as much as ever you like, if you want to rub it in. Only tell her that I've chucked it--chucked it for good. He's made me loathe myself. Tell her that I'm not as bad as she thinks me, but that I probably would be if it hadn't been for him. And you, Edie, only I'm going to leave you out of it." "You certainly may." "It's because she knows all that already; and the point is to get her to appreciate him."