Wolfenden returned Densham’s eager gaze steadfastly.
“I have gone,” he said calmly, “too far to turn back. You fellows both know I am not a woman’s man. I’ve never cared for a girl in all my life, or pretended to, seriously. Now that I do, it is not likely that I shall give her up without any definite reason. You must speak more plainly, Densham, or not at all.”
Densham rose from his chair.
“I am very sorry,” he said.
Wolfenden turned upon him, frowning.
“You need not be,” he said. “You and Harcutt have both, I believe, heard some strange stories concerning the man; but as for the girl, no one shall dare to speak an unbecoming word of her.”
“No one desired to,” Densham answered quietly. “And yet there may be other and equally grave objections to any intercourse with her.”
Wolfenden smiled confidently.
“Nothing in the world worth winning,” he said, “is won without an effort, or without difficulty. The fruit that is of gold does not drop into your mouth.”
The band had ceased to play and the lights went out. Around them was all the bustle of departure. The three men rose and left the room.