Saltash's eyes flashed upwards. He met Jake's look almost with defiance. "Doubtless you are master in your own house, Jake," he said. "Far be it from me to question it."
"I didn't mean that," said Jake. "What I meant was," the red-brown eyes began to smile, "that Maud and I are friends—and we generally want the same thing."
Saltash nodded. "Not so bad after eight years," he said.
"No. It's pretty great," said Jake. "You'd think we were an ill-matched pair, wouldn't you? But we've learnt to plough as straight a furrow as anyone."
"No, I don't think you ill-matched," said Saltash unexpectedly. "You've always been about the same height and breadth, my friend. I saw that a long time ago. The luckiest day that ever dawned for Maud was the one on which you cut me out."
"Think so?" said Jake. "Well, it wasn't a very lucky one for you, I'm afraid."
"I got over it," said Saltash lightly. "I'm too great a rotter, you know, Jake, to take things much to heart. I've loved heaps of women since—even some good ones. But they never take me seriously; so I presume I shall continue to rot."
"Thought you'd turned sober," suggested Jake.
Again Saltash's look dwelt upon the ruby drain in his wine-glass. For a moment the restlessness of his face deepened to something very nearly approaching melancholy.
"I'm tired, Jake," he said abruptly. "I've run through the whole gamut of amusements, and I'm bored to the soul. I want to do a good turn to somebody—just for a change—to see what it feels like. Perhaps—who knows—it may take the taste of rottenness out of my mouth. You fellows who lead a decent, orderly life don't know what it is when the wine turns to vinegar and all the sweets of life to gall."