Michael laughed.
"Poor old Violet!" he said. "She will soon be bringing out her daughter. I saw her the other day in London; she cut me dead!"
"That was an escape!" and Henry lit a cigar. "However, as you know, a year after weeping crocodile tears for poor Maurice, she married young Layard of Balmayn. So all's well that ends well. She and Rose have never spoken since the scene when Violet read in the Scotsman that you had got married!"
"Don't let's talk of it!" returned Mr. Arranstoun. "The whole thought of marriage and matrimony makes me sick!"
"Are you in some fresh scrape?" Henry exclaimed.
Michael put his head down doggedly, while his eyes flashed and he bit off the end of his cigar.
"Yes, the very devil of a hole—but this time no one can help me with advice or even sympathy; I must get out of the tangle myself."
"I am awfully sorry, old man."
"It is my own fault, that is what hurts the most."
"I do not feel particularly brilliant to-night either," Henry announced. "The divorce proceedings have not apparently been commenced in America—and nothing definite can be settled. I do not understand it quite. I always thought that out there the woman could always get matters manipulated for her, and get rid of the man when she wanted. They are so very chivalrous to women, American men, whatever may be their other sins. This one must be an absolute swine."