But he was fond of his mother all the same, and her blessing did him no harm.
After all, he couldn't go and make an utter fool of himself—or worse,—while the old woman believed in him so.
A girl begged of him on his way through the streets, and his sallow cheek flushed, for the colour of her hair was like Meg's.
Her innocent face swam before him for a moment, and he put his hand before his eyes with a sense of sacrilege at the reminder. He believed himself as little given to sentiment as any man; but he had felt, since he had known Meg, that his other thoughts were not good enough company for those of her. Now, with a bitter revulsion, he declared to himself that the preacher, who had had no scruples, had fared the best.
He thrust the girl aside, and quickened his steps with compressed lips.
When he got to his rooms he walked straight up to his writing-table drawer, and took from it a little water-colour sketch that had been torn out of Laura's sketch book.
"I can't afford this nonsense," he said. "I shall murder the preacher, if I let you stay here now."
He tore the portrait across, and burnt it in the flame of his lamp. And this was, perhaps, the most sensible thing he could have done; but George seldom lost his head, whatever happened to his heart.