on the rocks himself, he could understand what she had suffered--the
rain squelching through the thin little shoes, the bitter loneliness of
the great city, the meals of bread and milk which had to last the whole
day, the passionate longing for a home of some sort. He did not attempt
to argue the thing out logically, as a Grierson would have done. The
thought of her way of life inspired him, not with the scorn or loathing
a man of position would have felt, even when taking advantage of it, but
with a terrible, gnawing jealousy. Probably, he would not have admitted,
even to himself, that he was in love, for, somehow, the phrase seemed
hopelessly inapplicable. It belonged to the Grierson part of his nature,
and was supposed to signify a preliminary to marriage, an altogether
decorous kind of affection for a decorously-behaved girl, who had never
been homeless or hungry or cold. All he cared for now was to get Lalage
away, to be with her always, and, for the moment at least, anything
which did not help towards that end seemed of absolutely no importance.
He had thrust family considerations on one side, thrust on one side all
those good resolutions, or rather those revived instincts of the past,
which had been uppermost in his mind when he first came home. His own
world, the Griersons and Marlows and Grimmers, would have called him
either mad or hopelessly immoral, according to the degree of charity
latent in their respective natures; Kelly would have warned him bluntly
not to endanger his prospects by being a fool; a mental specialist would
have explained that the shock of John Locke's death, coming on top of
the ten years of almost continual overstrain in bad climates, had
temporarily affected his balance, an opinion with which Lalage herself
would have agreed, knowing, after all, nothing of men's love; but
neither opinions nor diagnosis would have altered Jimmy's determination.

He had put in two days of almost savagely hard work. Without money he
would be helpless. True, most of his manuscripts had come back; but
still three had actually appeared in print, and he could feel he had
made a start. The old semi-indifference on the question of his ultimate
success or failure had vanished completely. He was in deadly earnest
now; Lalage should have no more bread-and-milk days, if he could help
it.

Mrs. Marlow's letter had arrived by the first delivery, in the cheerful
company of a returned manuscript. He had heard from Lalag