cherish the dawn of compunction
which appeared, as he thought, in the sinner's words.

"The best thing that can happen to you," said Gerald, at the sound of
whose voice everybody started, "is to find out that the wages of sin are
bitter. Don't expect any sympathy or consolation from those who have
helped you to do wrong. My brother tries to induce you to do a right act
from an unworthy motive. He says your former associates will not
acknowledge you. My advice to you is to forsake your former associates.
My brother," said Gerald, turning aside to look at him, "would do
himself honour if he forsook them also--but for you, here is your
opportunity. You have no temptation of poverty now. Take the first step,
and forsake them. I have no motive in advising you--except, indeed, that
I am Jack Wentworth's brother. He and you are different," said Gerald,
involuntarily glancing from one to the other. "And at present you have
the means of escape. Go now and leave them," said the man who was a
priest by nature. The light returned to his eye while he spoke; he was
no longer passive, contemplating his own moral death; his natural office
had come back to him unawares. He stretched his arm towards the door,
thinking of nothing but the escape of the sinner. "Go," said Gerald.
"Refuse their approbation; shun their society. For Christ's sake, and
not for theirs, make amends to those you have wronged. Jack, I command
you to let him go."

Jack, who had been startled at first, had recovered himself long
before his brother ceased to speak. "Let him go, by all means," he
said, and stood superbly indifferent by Gerald's side, whistling under
his breath a tripping lively air. "No occasion for solemnity. The
sooner he goes the better," said Jack. "In short, I see no reason why
any of us should stay, now the business is accomplished. I wonder
would his reverence ever forgive me if I lighted my cigar?" He took
out his case as he spoke, and began to look over its contents. There
was one in the room, however, who was better acquainted with the
indications of Jack Wentworth's face than either of his brothers. This
unfortunate, who was hanging in an agony of uncertainty over the chair
he had placed before him, watched every movement of his leader's face
with the anxious gaze of a lover, hoping to see a little corresponding
anxiety in it, but watched in vain. Wodehouse had been going through a
fever of doubt and divided impulses. The shabby fellow was