There was only one explanation of what he had seen. Jimmie was reduced to poverty, to pawning his belongings in order to live. The scandal had killed the sale of his pictures. No more ladies would sit to him for their portraits. No more dealers would purchase works on the strength of his name. Jimmie was ill, poor, down at heel, and it was all his, Morland's, fault, his very grievous fault. In a dim, futile way he wished he were a Roman Catholic, so that he could go to a priest, confess, and receive absolution. The idea of confession obsessed him in this chastened mood. By lunch-time he had resolved to tell Norma everything and abide by her verdict. At any rate, if he married her, he would not do so under false pretences. He would feel happier with the load of lies off his mind. At half-past four he left the House of Commons to transact its business without him as best it could, and drove to Devonshire Place. As he neared the door, his courage began to fail. He remembered Norma's passionate outburst against lying, and shrank from the withering words that she might speak. The situation, however, had to be faced. The maid who opened the front door informed him that Norma was out, but that Mrs. Hardacre was at home. He was shown upstairs into the empty drawing-room, and while he waited there, a solution of his difficulty occurred to him. He caught at it eagerly, as he had caught at compromises and palliatives all his life. For he was a man of half-sins, half-virtues, half-loves, and half-repentances. His spiritual attitude was that of Naaman. Mrs. Hardacre greeted him with smiles of welcome, and regrets at Norma's absence. If only he had sent a message, Norma would have given up her unimportant engagement. She would be greatly disappointed. The House took up so much of his time, and Norma prized the brief snatches she could obtain of his company. All of which, though obviously insincere, none the less flattered Morland's vanity. “Perhaps it is as well that Norma is away,” said he, “for I want to have a little talk with you. Can you give me five minutes?” “Fifty, my dear Morland,” replied Mrs. Hardacre, graciously. “Will you have some tea?” He declined. It was too serious a matter for the accompaniment of clattering teaspoons. Mrs. Hardacre sat in an armchair with her back to the light--the curtains had not yet been drawn--and Morland sat near her, looking at the fire. “I have something on my mind,” he began. “You, as Norma's mother, ought to know. It's about my friend Jimmie Padgate.” Mrs. Hardacre put out a lean hand. “I would rather not hear it. I'm not uncharitable, but I wish none of us had ever set eyes on the man. He came near ruining us all.” “He seems to have ruined himself. He's ill, poor, in dreadful low water. I caught a sight of him this morning. The poor old chap was almost in rags.” “It's very unpleasant for Mr. Padgate, but it fails to strike me as pathetic. He has only got his deserts.”