"Ah, so Henry has been gambling again," Jim vaguely answered. Did this mean further anxiety for Diana? He was conscious of a curious light-headedness that made all of the day’s work—even this possible unhappiness for his aunt and Diana—seem faint and blurred. The dead-level of his tone made Lady Elizabeth answer, sharply: "Worse—infinitely worse than a card debt. Henry has borrowed an enormous sum of money which it is absolutely impossible for him to repay." "Borrowed? I had no idea Henry’s credit was so good." Elizabeth Kerhill saw that his mind was only half grasping what she was trying to tell him—that he thought it only another of Henry’s peccadilloes. She laid her hand on his shoulder. "Henry used the Fund to try to cover the loss of his last possession, which he has sunk in a huge speculation." Jim quickly looked up. "The Fund—what Fund? Not the—" "Yes, the Relief Fund." "Why, that’s embezzle—" But his aunt’s feverish hand stopped the word. She clung to Jim as she piteously said, "Henry intended to replace it." "Poor Diana! poor Diana!" The words slipped from him and then as he looked at the terrible eyes full of this bitter knowledge he quickly threw his arms protectingly about his aunt. "Poor Aunt! poor Aunt!" "Yes, we women must bear our sins alone, and you men make us bear yours, too." "You have had your share, Aunt," he answered, as he caressed her hand. He found it difficult to say more; he was so tired, yet he must struggle to grasp what it all meant. "It will ruin your prospects, too, Jim, I’m afraid. It will be impossible for you to remain here after this." She began to understand why she had sent for Jim. Like him, her mental condition was at its lowest ebb—she, too, was exhausted. What were Jim’s thoughts? Why didn’t he speak? There had been a new resolve on his face when he first came in response to her summons. "Oh, it doesn’t matter about me," Jim roused himself to say. "I don’t represent anything. Besides—" he hesitated. He was leaving England—why not tell the truth? The tragedy that the night had wrought was far more difficult for him to face than this crime of Henry’s. Then into his tired brain came the knowledge of what all this would mean to the woman he loved. "But Diana"—he continued—"she is a proud woman; her father is a proud man—he is in delicate health. It will kill him. You took from Diana her own proud name to give her ours. God—this scandal will ring from one end of the empire to the other. Di, Di—" he could think only of her now. "She’s a city set on a hill—she’ll be the object of pity and the tattle of every back stair in England. It’s monstrous—it’s monstrous!" Suddenly in the midst of his vehement despair for Diana he became conscious that his aunt was watching him. His entire cry had been selfishly for Diana. "Oh, forgive me—forgive me!" he pleaded. "And you—what will become of you?" "I don’t believe I could survive it."