He affected a semi-picturesque attire in the evenings, a dark blue velvet coat as a setting to his white shirt and tie, and diamond studs, and though Valentine abominated this style of dressing, he was forced to admit that his brother became it very well.
“Mark has gone his own gait too long to change easily now,” Sacha said. He leaned back in his chair, and smoked his cigarette through a long gold-mounted holder. “I think he is much about the same. I lunched there the other day, and Mark drank his bottle of champagne like a man.”
Valentine frowned sharply.
“Why do you encourage him in this?” he asked, in his curtest way.
Sacha opened his handsome eyes.
“My dear Val, what have I to do with it? I am not Mark’s keeper.”
Valentine pulled away hardly at his pet meerschaum, and there was silence between the two brothers till Sacha spoke again.
“Mark must drink himself to death,” he said, quite composedly. “It is his destiny, and a man cannot go against his fate.”
“Don’t talk that kind of tomfoolery to me, Sacha,” the other man said roughly. “Every man’s fate is to make the best of his life, and Mark Wentworth started as clear as any of us. He is unfortunately placed, and that is where his bad fate comes in.”
Sacha smiled faintly.