"Look here, Thorold: the past is over and done with—ill done, you will say, and I admit it. Be that as it may, it has gone. At the same time there is no reason why any shadow of it should fall on Justine. She is really in need of some one's advice. Can you not give it to her?"
"Certainly," Thorold answered, "I can do that;" and he looked very sturdy as he said it. "Only—"
"Only what? If you can't go as a friend, at least you might go as a physician."
Thorold's hand had slid from his cheek to his chin, and he nibbled reflectively at a finger-nail.
"Very good," he said; "I will go to her. Is she to be at home this afternoon?"
"The evening would be better, I think. Unless, of course—" and Mistrial made a gesture as though to imply that, if Thorold's evening were engaged, a visit in the afternoon might be attempted.
But the suggestion presumably was acceptable. Thorold drew out a note-book, at which he glanced.
"And I say," Mistrial continued, "I wish—you see, it is a delicate matter; Justine is very sensitive—I wish you wouldn't say you met me. Just act as though—"
"Give yourself no uneasiness, sir." Thorold had replaced the note-book and looked up again in Mistrial's face. "I never mention your name." And thereat, with a toss of the head, he dodged an omnibus and crossed the street.
For a moment Mistrial gazed after him, then he turned, and presently he was ordering a glass of brandy at the Brunswick bar.