“I know you're not,” said Jimmie.
Morland lit another cigar with the air of a man whose virtues deserve some reward.
“The letter can only have one interpretation. Have you known of it?”
“Never dreamed of it.”
“Was there any question of marriage?”
“None whatever. Difference of position and all the rest of it. She quite understood. In fact, it was like your Quartier Latin affair.”
Jimmie winced. “It was n't the Quartier Latin—and I was going to marry her—only she died before—oh, don't mind me, Morland. What's going to be done now?” Morland shrugged his shoulders again, having palliated himself into a more normal condition. His conscience, to speak by the book, was clothed and in its right mind.
“It's infernally hard lines it should come just at this time. You see, I've heaps of things to think about. My position—Parliament—I'm going to contest Cosford in the autumn. If the constituency gets hold of any scandal, I'm ruined. You know the Alpine heights of morality of a British constituency—and there's always some moral scavenger about. And then there's Norma—”
“Yes, there's Norma,” said Jimmie, seriously.
“It's unpleasant, you see. If she should know—”