Joseph Fenton was waiting for his brother-in-law in the hall of his hotel. Jimmy, scarcely knowing what sort of reception to expect, had come in white-faced and hard-eyed, but the elder man's handshake eased his mind at once.
Fenton led the way into the smoking-room, selected a couple of chairs in the further corner, then held out his cigar case. "Have a smoke?" he said.
Jimmy helped himself, and, for a minute or two, they smoked in silence; then:
"This is a bit of an upset, Jimmy," Joseph remarked; getting no reply beyond a curt nod, he went on, "I'm not going to talk to you about the moral side of it—I expect your sisters have done that, too much perhaps—but what is this girl going to do now? You can't let her starve."
"Ida and May say she ought to," Jimmy answered grimly. The elder man made a gesture of annoyance. "I know. Ida told me, and we disagreed." He paused and stared at the smoke curling upwards from his cigar, as though trying to find inspiration in it. He was always a little slow and awkward in his speech, and now he seemed worse than ever; but at last he went on: "Look here, Jimmy, I went through much the same sort of thing myself, before I was engaged to your sister, so I understand. You see? My people found out and sent me abroad; and I didn't hear of the girl again until it was too late." He sighed heavily, and stared once more at the cigar smoke.
Jimmy looked up. "What had happened?" he asked.
Joseph started. "She had drowned herself." He spoke very quietly, but none the less Jimmy realised what the memory meant to this man whom he had always thought a little dull and prosaic. "When I let them ship me away—I was only a youngster at the time—I thought they would help her to get a fresh start, but they didn't. It's spoilt my life, and that's why I don't want yours spoilt. At least give her the chance to go right." He drew a packet of bank-notes from his pocket. "Here's fifty to go on with. Come to me when you want some more. Only, send her right away, where you won't be tempted to go and see her. You must drop it now. There can be no question of your marrying her; and there's only misery in this free love, as you, yourself, have seen."
Jimmy held out his hand gratefully. "It's awfully good of you, Joseph. I was coming to you for a loan when I got your wire. She,"—somehow he could not bring himself to mention Lalage's name,—"she is only too anxious to get away from town, and this money will make it possible. I suppose in time she'll get something to do; but there's been no time to make plans yet."
"Well, let me know when you want some more money. Write to the office, not to the house. I only wish you had asked me before this happened. I've been pretty successful, at least in business; but that's not everything." He paused and then went on, in short, jerky sentences. "Don't marry a saint, Jimmy. They're better to watch than to live with. Your sister never forgives anything, and that's a big mistake. It makes life hard sometimes. I suppose I'm getting a bit old, and I feel things. The doctor says I must be careful."