He shook hands with Hubert Kestridge cordially enough all the same, and when Winnie’s husband asked him to luncheon he agreed, and the two men repaired to a restaurant close at hand.
Valentine had time to examine Kestridge during the meal, and gradually his hard feelings melted away and pity instead of anger came into his heart for his companion.
“Where do you hail from, Kestridge?” he asked. “You don’t look any great shakes. I verily believe you have grown thinner.”
“We crossed from Ireland last night. Am I changed? You have not seen me for a long time. I fancy I am about the same bulk, anyhow.”
They spoke of desultory things for a time, and then all at once Kestridge changed the subject.
“Ambleton,” he said, “I am awfully glad I met you to-day. I wanted one friend to wish me good luck before leaving England, and of all my friends, I would sooner have had you say this than any other man.”
“Leaving England? What do you mean, Kestridge? You sound as if something were wrong.”
“Something is wrong,” Hubert Kestridge said, unsteadily. “Not something, but everything. Ambleton, I am a miserable man. I have made such a mistake—oh, God! what a mistake; and yet even now, looking back, I hardly know how this came about.”
“Are you speaking of your marriage?” Valentine asked, in a low voice.
The other inclined his head to mean assent.