“No—no—no. I can fill in the gaps. But look here! D’you think a lover will make up for what she’s lost? And are you sure she has lost? That’s the point to decide.” “I say he ignores her—isn’t conscious of her—” “But imagine what might happen if he were.” “He never will be.” “You’re very sure.” “Absolutely.” “How long have you known her?” “We met first last Friday.” “And today’s Thursday. Six days?” “We’ve met every day since.” “Does he know that?” “No.” “Tell him.” “Why should I?” “You said you wanted her to be happy.” “I do, but why should I tell him?” “Love is a light sleeper—who wakes very easily. Tell him—wake him up. The boy is drunk with success—blind drunk. Are you going to steal from a blind man?” “I shan’t tell him,” said Quiltan, slowly. “No, because you’re a coward. Frightened of losing ground. Her happiness! You don’t give a damn for it beside your own.” “That’s not true. If I refuse to tell him, it’s because he wouldn’t care if I did. God! he isn’t even faithful to her.” Clementine Rendall sprang to his feet and dropped a hand on Quiltan’s shoulder. “You’re inventing it—inventing it.” “No. He boasted at the club the other night of a girl he would take to Brighton.” “He was drunk.” “He had been drinking.” “Who listens to a drunken man?” “He was sober enough to mean it. Besides, it’s true. I know the girl—Esme Waybury, a pretty, flaxen little strumpet—week-end wife to any bidder—understudying at the theatre. You needn’t doubt the facts. Half the company knows by this time.” Clem rapped his closed fist upon the table. “I hate this,” he exclaimed, “hate it! What will she do—Eve?” “God knows. It’ud be the last knock. God knows how she’ll take it. Anything might happen—she’s extraordinary, and she’s counted on him so much—built up a future of hopes. It’s pitiable. If he fails her altogether—” “If?” “As he will tomorrow night.” “Tss!” “Sounds sordid enough, doesn’t it?” “Well, what then?” “As I said—anything. She might jump off a bridge.” “Or fall into your arms, eh?” “They are waiting.” For a moment or two Clementine paced the floor of the bedroom, his brows creased and his chin down. “Where’s it all going to lead? How are we going to pull ’em out?” “Them?” “Yes. For the boy’s worth saving when he comes to life. I’m sorry for him—damn sorry.” “Think he’s worth it?”