“If ever,” Mr. Rocke continued, “people were inclined to look a little askance at her, that has all gone by. Today she is one of the last women in the world of whom people would be likely to believe ill.”
Wingrave nodded slowly.
“I am very much obliged to you,” he said, “for this information. You seem to have come here today, Mr. Rocke, with good intentions towards me. Let me ask you to put yourself in my place. I am barely forty years old, and I am rich. I want to make the most of my life—under the somewhat peculiar circumstances. How and where should you live?”
“It depends a little upon your tastes, of course,” Rocke answered. “You are a sportsman, are you not?”
“I am fond of sport,” Wingrave answered. “At least I was. At present I am not conscious of having any positive tastes.”
“I think,” Rocke continued, “that I should first of all change my name. Then, without making any effort to come into touch with your old friends, I should seek acquaintance amongst the Bohemian world of London and Paris. There I might myself, perhaps, be able to help you. For sport, you might fish in Norway or Iceland, or shoot in Hungary; you could run to a yacht if you cared about it, and if you fancy big game, why, there’s all Africa before you.”
Wingrave listened, without changing a muscle of his face.
“Your programme,” he remarked, “presupposes that I have no ambitions beyond the pursuit of pleasure.”
Rocke shrugged his shoulders. He was becoming more at his ease. He felt that his advice was sound, that he was showing a most comprehensive grasp of the situation.
“I am afraid,” he said, “that none of what we call the careers are open to you. You could not enter Parliament, and you are too old for the professions. The services, of course, are impossible. You might write, if your tastes ran that way. Nowadays, it seems to be the fashion to record one’s experiences in print, if—if they should happen to be in any way exceptional. I can think of nothing else!”