"Not a bit. Brian's too tender-hearted for a thing of that sort. But the mother's very bitter about it. She's as hard as flint. It's a bad look out for Brian. He's a ruined man."
"Not from a pecuniary point of view. The property goes to him."
"Yes, but he hasn't the strength to put up with the slights and the scandal which will go with it. He has the pluck, but not the physique. It's men like him that go out of their minds, or commit suicide, or die of heart-break—which you doctors call by some other name, of course—when the world's against them. He'll never stand it. Mark my words—Brian Luttrell won't be to the fore this time next year."
"Where will he be, Colquhoun? Come, come, Brian's a fellow with brains. He won't do anything rash."
"He'll be in his grave," said the lawyer, gloomily.
"Hell be enjoying himself in the metropolis," said the doctor. "He'll have a fine house and a pretty wife, and he'll laugh in our faces if we hint at your prophecies, Colquhoun. I should have had no respect at all for Brian Luttrell if he threw away his own life because he had accidentally taken that of another man."
"We shall see," said the lawyer.