Yet, in spite of absorbing political toys, his complete subjugation of Norma, and the smiling aspect of life, a sense of utter wretchedness weighed upon the soul of this half-developed man. He could not shake it off. It haunted him as he sat stolid and stupefied in his place below the gangway. It dulled all sensation of pleasure when he kissed the lips which Norma, resigned now to everything, surrendered to him at his pleasure. It took the sparkle out of his champagne, the joy out of his life. Now that he had asserted himself as the victorious male who had won the female that he coveted, the sense of wrong inflicted on him grew less and the consciousness of his own shame grew greater. In his shallow way he had loved Jimmie dearly. He also had the well-bred Englishman's conventional sense of honour. Accusing conscience wrote him down an unutterable knave. One day in March, as he was proceeding citywards to see his solicitors on some question relating to marriage settlements, his carriage was blocked for some minutes in Oxford Street. Looking idly out of the near side window, he saw a familiar figure emerge from a doorway in a narrow passage come down to the pavement, and stand for a few moments in anxious thought, jostled by the passers-by. He looked thin and ill and worried. The lines by the sides of his drooping moustache had deepened. Jimmie, never spruce in his attire, now seemed outrageously shabby. Certain men who dress well are quick, like women, to notice these things. Morland's keen glance took in the discoloured brown boots and the frayed hem of trousers, the weather stains on the old tweed suit, the greasiness of the red tie, the irregular mark of perspiration on the band of the old Homburg hat. An impulse to spring out of the carriage and greet him was struggling with sheer shame, when Jimmie suddenly threw up his head--an old trick of his whose familiarity brought a pang to the man watching him--and crossed the road, disappearing among the traffic behind the brougham. Morland gazed meditatively at the little passage. Suddenly he was aware of the three brass balls and the name of Attenborough. In a moment he was on the pavement and, after a hurried word to his coachman, in pursuit of Jimmie. But the traffic had swallowed Jimmie up. It was impossible to track him. Morland returned to his brougham and drove on.