passing in my mind.

"Don't think me ungrateful," he said. "You dear, kind, good
fellow, consider for a moment, and you will see that it can't be.
What would be said of her and of me, if you made Susan rich with
your money, and if I married her? The poor innocent would be
called your cast-off mistress. People would say: 'He has behaved
liberally to her, and his needy friend has taken advantage of
it.' "

The point of view which I had failed to see was put with terrible
directness of expression: the conviction that I was wrong was
literally forced on me. What reply could I make? Rothsay
evidently felt for me.

"You are ill," he said, gently; "let me leave you to rest."

He held out his hand to say good-by. I insisted on his taking up
his abode with me, for the present at least. Ordinary persuasion
failed to induce him to yield. I put it on selfish grounds next.

"You have noticed that I am ill," I said, "I want you to keep me
company."

He gave way directly.

Through the wakeful night, I tried to consider what moral
remedies might be within our reach. The one useful conclusion at
which I could arrive was to induce Rothsay to try what absence
and change might do to compose his mind. To advise him to travel