“You?” cried Mrs. Hardacre, her grey eyes glittering with sudden interest. “What had you to do with it?”
“Well, everything. Jimmie never set eyes on the girl in his life. He took all the blame to shield me. If he had n't done so, there would have been the devil to pay. That's how it stands.”
Mrs. Hardacre gave a little gasp.
“My dear Morland, you amaze me. You positively shock me. Really, don't you think in mentioning the matter to me there is some—indelicacy?”
“You are a woman of the world,” said Morland, bluntly, “and you know that men don't lead the lives of monks just because they happen to be unmarried.”
“Of course I know it,” said Mrs. Hardacre, composing herself to sweetness. “One knows many things of which it is hardly necessary or desirable to talk. Of course I think it shocking and disreputable of you. But it's all over and done with. If that was on your mind, wipe it off and let us say no more about it.”
“I'm afraid you don't understand,” said Morland, rising and leaning against the mantel-piece. “What is done is done. Meanwhile another man is suffering for it, while I go about prospering.”
“But surely that is a matter between Mr. Padgate and yourself. How can it possibly concern us?”
As Morland had not looked at the case from that point of view, he silently inspected it with a puzzled brow.
“I can't help feeling a bit of a brute, you know,” he said at length. “I meant at first to let him off—to make a clean breast of it—but it wasn't feasible. You know how difficult these things are when they get put off. Then, of course, I thought I could make it up to Jimmie in other ways.”