"If I were, I should not consider it my business to inform you."
"Your sympathy is without doubt on her side?"
Wingate changed his attitude.
"Look here," he said, "this subject is not of my choosing. I should have preferred to avoid it. Since you press me, however, I haven't the faintest hesitation in saying that I look upon your wife as one of the sweetest and best women I ever knew, married, unfortunately, to a person utterly unworthy of her."
Dredlinton started in his place. A little streak of colour flushed up to his eyes.
"What the devil do you mean by that?"
"Look here," Wingate expostulated, "you can't threaten me, Dredlinton. You asked for what you got. Why not save time and explain why you have dragged your wife's name into this business?"
Dredlinton, in his peculiar way, was angry. His speech was a little broken, his eyes glittered.
"Explain? My God, I will! You are one of those damned frauds, Wingate, who pose as a purist and don't hesitate to make capital out of the harmless differences which sometimes arise between husband and wife. You sympathise with Lady Dredlinton, eh?"
"I should sympathise with any woman who was your wife," Wingate assured him, his own temper rising.