‘My God!’ ejaculated Laurent—‘serious! But an instant, my dear Armstrong. We are not thinking of a male inebriate; we are thinking of a woman—a question so different that there is barely any comparison to be made.’
‘Is that so? said Paul, in a voice of little interest, though he felt for the moment as if his heart were breaking.
‘That is so,’ returned Laurent, with emphasis; ‘and I can assure you that, if you desire to effect a cure here, you must betake yourself—and betake yourself at once—to heroic measures. Your wife must be placed, without delay, in competent hands, and no restraint must be placed upon those who undertake to treat her.’
‘Very well,’ said Paul dully, ‘I understand all that We’ll have another talk in the morning, if you don’t mind.’
Laurent forbore to speak further just then, but he kept Paul in silent company for an hour, and was more useful in that way than he could have been if he had poured out the gathered knowledge of an encyclopaedia upon him. He gave that dumb sense of sympathy which, in hours of deep distress, is so very much more potent than the spoken word. Paul at last rose and shook him by the hand.
‘Good-night,’ he said, ‘and thank you.’
Laurent accepted his dismissal, returned the grip, took up his hat and moved away. It would appear that he had not gone far, for when an instant later Paul poured out a second or third glass of cognac for himself, there came a tap upon the study window, and Laurent’s face was visible there dose to one of the lower panes. Paul threw the window open and looked out at him.
‘You have something to say?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said Laurent, with a grave and tender face, ‘I have this one thing to say: Do not follow that sorrowful example.’
‘Oh,’ said Paul, ‘have no fear there; my temptation does not lie in that direction.’