The small man, however, did a very strange thing. He drew forth a pocket-book and took from it what Armorel perceived to be a cheque. This he deliberately tore across twice, and threw the fragments into the fire.
'You do not understand this act, Armorel. It is the turning of the footstep.'
She took his hand and pressed it. 'I pray,' she said, 'that the way may prove less thorny than you think!'
Nature, again accommodating herself, caused the small, mean man to grow suddenly several inches. There was still a goodly difference between the two, but it was lessened. More than that, the man continued to grow; and his face was brighter, and his eyes less haggard.
'I will go now, Armorel,' he said.
'You will come again—soon?'
'Not yet. I will come again, when the shame of the present belongs to the past.'
'No. You shall come often. But of past or present we will speak no more. Tell me, in your own good time, Roland, how you fare. But do not desert your old pupil. Come to see me often.'
He bowed his head and went away.