Gregory turned his face to the window, and looked at the sky.

“I must go and see her.  Just give me her address.”

Mrs. Shortman read from a green book: 

“‘Mrs. Porter, 2 Bilcock Buildings, Bloomsbury.’  Mr. Vigil!”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Vigil, I do sometimes wish you would not persevere so long with those hopeless cases; they never seem to come to anything, and your time is so valuable.”

“How can I give them up, Mrs. Shortman?  There’s no choice.”

“But, Mr. Vigil, why is there no choice?  You must draw the line somewhere.  Do forgive me for saying that I think you sometimes waste your time.”

Gregory turned to the girl at the typewriter.

“Miss Mallow, is Mrs. Shortman right? do I waste my time?”

The girl at the typewriter blushed vividly, and, without looking round, said: 

“How can I tell, Mr. Vigil?  But it does worry one.”

A humorous and perplexed smile passed over Gregory’s lips.

“Now I know I shall cure her,” he said. “2 Bilcock Buildings.”  And he continued to look at the sky.  “How’s your neuralgia, Mrs. Shortman?”

Mrs. Shortman smiled.

“Awful!”

Gregory turned quickly.

“You feel that window, then; I’m so sorry.”

Mrs. Shortman shook her head.

“No, but perhaps Molly does.”

The girl at the typewriter said: 

“Oh no; please, Mr. Vigil, don’t shut it for me.”

“Truth and honour?”

“Truth and honour,” replied both women.  And all three for a moment sat looking at the sky.  Then Mrs. Shortman said: 

“You see, you can’t get to the root of the evil—­that husband of hers.”

Gregory turned.

“Ah,” he said, “that man!  If she could only get rid of him!  That ought to have been done long ago, before he drove her to drink like this.  Why didn’t she, Mrs. Shortman, why didn’t she?”

Mrs. Shortman raised her eyes, which had such a peculiar spiritual glow.

“I don’t suppose she had the money,” she said; “and she must have been such a nice woman then.  A nice woman doesn’t like to divorce—­”

Gregory looked at her.

“What, Mrs. Shortman, you too, you too among the Pharisees?”

Mrs. Shortman flushed.

“She wanted to save him,” she said; “she must have wanted to save him.”

“Then you and I——­” But Gregory did not finish, and turned again to the window.  Mrs. Shortman, too, biting her lips, looked anxiously at the sky.

Miss Mallow at the typewriter, with a scared face, plied her fingers faster than ever.

Gregory was the first to speak.

“You must please forgive me,” he said gently.  “A personal matter; I forgot myself.”

Mrs. Shortman withdrew her gaze from the sky.

“Oh, Mr. Vigil, if I had known——­”

Gregory Gregory smiled.