"Did she and they meet?"
"Oh, she didn't come across them. They were in lodgings—not at our hotel. He's a well-read man—very good manners—and then one's so awfully sorry for him. She's about the nicest woman I know—Mrs. Lucas, I mean. And they are fighting one of the hardest battles a man ever had to fight—that's to say he is; and she helps him . . . You good people are all so exclusive, that you won't put out a helping hand. You only draw your saintly skirts aside, for fear of contamination, and walk by on the other side. If ever a man fell among thieves, Captain Lucas has. And if ever a man needed kind friends—I suppose he would get enough of pity and help too, if he were a working man, struggling to be sober. Being unfortunately a gentleman by birth, he only has the cold shoulder all round."
Jean listened in bewildered silence to this rush of words. A new phase of Cyril had appeared. She could not divine all the hidden springs which moved him; but strong feeling on behalf of another was sure to rouse her interest.
"I should like to understand more," she said. "What I heard was that Lady Lucas' nephew was a confirmed drunkard—dismissed from the army for hard drinking. Don't mind my saying it, please: because I was told."
"There's truth in the tale. He has a desperate tendency that way. It's awfully rough on him. His father died of delirium tremens; and the bent has come down to Captain Lucas. A horrible thing to have inherited! Then there was his bringing up, all through boyhood his father was a victim to drink, and the boy tempted every way. His mother was a good woman, but I don't think she counted for much in the household. Then he was put into the army; and you know what that means. He couldn't stand against it."
"And then—?"
"He had warning after warning; and it ended in his being dismissed. That sobered him; and about the same time, his mother died, making him promise to take a fresh start. Ever since, for years, he has kept up the struggle . . . I don't suppose you or I can fancy what it is—the sort of craving that seizes on him at times. Once in a way, he is overcome; and then he despairs; yet still he fights on. He never goes out to dinner—or anywhere, if a bottle of wine might be on the table; for he daren't trust himself."
"I wonder any one could marry him."
"She had known him all her life. It was a few years after he left the army—and she knew how determined he was to conquer. She thought she could help him; and I am sure she does. He told me himself that in some of his fits of despair, he never could have got up again, but for her. There's nobody else. None of his relations will have a word to say to him—they are such very good people, Jean—"
"You needn't sneer!"