Morland made no reply, but continued to stare out of the window and meditate upon the many injuries that fate had done him. He arraigned himself before the bar of his wounded vanity. He had broken the moral law and deserved a certain penalty. The magnanimous verdict received the applause of an admiring self. He was willing to undergo an adequate punishment--the imposition of a fine and the hard labour of setting devious things straight. But the alternative sentence to which he saw himself condemned--on the one hand, the ruin of his political career, his social position, and his marriage with Norma, to all of which he clung with a newly found passion, and on the other, ignoble shelter behind an innocent man who had done him a great wrong--he rebelled against with all his average, sensual Briton's sense of justice. It was grossly unfair. If there had been a spiritual “Times,” he would have written to it. The opening of the door caused him to turn round with a start. It was Aline, anxious and pale from an all-night sitting by Jimmie's bedside, but holding her slim body erect, and wearing the uncompromising air of a mother who has found her child evilly entreated at the hands of strangers. She glanced at the bed and at Morland; then she put her finger to her lip, and pointed at Jimmie, who lay fast asleep. Morland nodded and went on tiptoe out of the room. Aline looked round, and being a sensitive young person, shivered. She threw open the window wide, as if to rid the place of his influence. Jimmie stirred slightly. She bent down and kissed his hair.