II
It was difficult to think of this corpulent, bullying brawler as one of the leading newspaper men of the metropolis; he looked so very much more like a shoddy loafer from the underworld. His legs were still fairly steady, although his head was quite the reverse. His alcoholic exertions had been so ardent, however, that he sank on the couch with a loud snort of satisfaction.
"Where's Janet Barr?" he demanded, after getting his breath. "I followed her to Charlotte's flat, but she wasn't there. That's where Lydia Dyson said she was going to, the little liar."
Cornelia shook her finger at him in mock remonstrance.
"You have seen quite enough of Janet for one night, Hutch, judging from reports that have reached me. I'd be doing no more than was good for you if I put Mrs. Burley on your trail."
"What d'ye think Lizzie'd do?" he roared. "She'd scratch your eyes out for your pains!"
He gave himself up to a burst of horrible guffaws. As Robert looked at the man's gross, overheated, pitted face and at the Falstaffian neck and trunk, he was overcome with intense disgust.
This disgust was only in part shared by Cornelia. True, she did not relish Burley in his present drunken condition, but ordinarily she confessed to a curious weakness for him. "There's something about the brute that I like," she once frankly said.
She found his grossness and animal passion a relief from the refinement and fastidiousness of men like Robert. There was a certain quantitative satisfaction in the spectacle of his enormous bulk at her feet. Anyhow, all male slaves looked alike to her, the fact being that her appetite for attention or devotion was at once undiscriminating and insatiable.
Meanwhile Burley had turned to Robert.