“Not a bit of it,” said Morland, seating himself at the foot of the bed. “We'll put all that right. But you will give one a little time, won't you? You mustn't think you've been altogether left. I ran up to town at once to see my solicitors--not my usual people, you know, but some others, devilish smart fellows at this sort of thing. They'll see that nothing gets into the beastly papers.” “I don't see that it matters much,” said Jimmie. “Why, of course it does. I'm not going to let you take the whole blame. I could n't come forward yesterday, it was all so sudden. The scandal would have rotted my election altogether. But you shall be cleared--at any rate in the eyes of this household. I came down with the intention of telling Norma, but she has bolted to Cornwall. Upset, I suppose. However, as soon as she comes back--” “Let things be as they are,” interrupted Jimmie, closing his eyes for a moment wearily, for he had been suffering much bodily pain. “When I said I was David Rendell, I meant it. I can go on acting the part. It's pretty easy.” “Impossible, my dear old chap,” said Morland, with an air of heartiness. “You went into the affair with your eyes shut. You didn't know it was such a horrible mess.” “All the more reason for Norma to remain ignorant. It was for her sake as well as yours.” A peculiar tenderness in Jimmie's tone caused Morland, not usually perceptive, to look at him sharply. “You are very keen upon Norma,” he remarked. Jimmie closed his eyes again, and smiled. He was very weak and tired. The pain of his wound and a certain mental agitation had kept him awake all night, and just before Morland entered he had been dropping off to sleep for the first time. An unconquerable drowsiness induced irresponsibility of speech. “'The desire of the moth for the star,'” he murmured. Morland slid from the bed to his feet, and with his hands in his pockets gazed in astonishment at his friend.