“You're telling me lies, I'm afraid,” said Jimmie, “but you look miserable enough to say anything. Here!” He gave him two more shillings. The loafer thanked him and made a bee-line for the nearest public-house, while Jimmie, forgetting for the moment the pitiable aspect that poor humanity sometimes wears in the persons of the lowly, watched Morland's well-set-up figure disappear at the turn of the road. There was no sign of black care sitting behind that rider. It perched instead on Jimmie's shoulders, and there stayed for the rest of the day. In spite of his staunch trust in Morland's honour and uprightness, he found it hard to condone the fault. The parallel which Morland had not too ingenuously drawn with the far-away passionate episode in his own life had not seemed just. He had winced, wondered at the failure in tact, rebelled against the desecration of a memory so exquisitely sad. The moment after he had forgiven the blundering friend and opened his heart again to pity. He was no strict moralist, turning his head sanctimoniously aside at the sight of unwedded lovers. His heart was too big and generous. But between the romance of illicit love and the commonplace of vulgar seduction stretched an immeasurable distance. The words of the pathetic note, however, lingering in his mind, brought with them a redeeming fragrance. They conjured up the picture of sweet womanhood. They hinted no reproach; merely a trust which was expected to be fulfilled. To her Morland was the honourable gentleman all knew; he had promised nothing that he had not performed, that he would not perform. All day long, as he sat before his easel, mechanically copying folds of drapery from the lay figure on the platform, Jimmie strove to exonerate his friend from the baser fault, and to raise the poor love affair to a plane touched by diviner rays. But the black care still sat upon his shoulders.