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.”
“That's where the point lies,” said Morland. “He does n't deserve it. I do. I am the only person to blame in the whole infernal business.”