” She realized it was possible to be sorry for him—acutely sorry for the situation. “What did it matter?” she cried. ” “Come in out of the cold,” said Capes, and took her arm. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. ‘Ah, yes? To what do I pretend?’ ‘That,’ Gerald said regretfully, ‘I have not yet been able to fathom. I could not keep away any longer. Sheppard stopped him. Burn your palette and your easel. Placing a piece of money in Morgan's hands, he hurried out of the churchyard. She started forward.
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