Dunstan Renshaw.
Yes—I’ve studied the question.
Hugh Murray.
Contentment! Renshaw, do you imagine there is no Autumn in the life of a profligate? Do you think there is no moment when the accursed crop begins to rear its millions of heads above ground; when the rich man would give his wealth to be able to tread them back into the earth which rejects the foul load? To-day, you have robbed some honest man of a sweet companion!
Dunstan Renshaw.
Look here, Mr. Murray——!
Hugh Murray.
To-morrow, next week, next month, you may be happy—but what of the time when those wild oats thrust their ears through the very seams of the floor trodden by the wife whose respect you will have learned to covet! You may drag her into the crowded streets—there is the same vile growth springing up from the chinks of the pavement! In your house or in the open, the scent of the mildewed grain always in your nostrils, and in your ears no music but the wind’s rustle amongst the fat sheaves! And, worst of all, your wife’s heart a granary bursting with the load of shame your profligacy has stored there! I warn you—Mr. Lawrence Kenward!
Dunstan Renshaw.
What! Hold your tongue, man; d——n you, hold your tongue!