“Did Mr Poynter pay your last fees at Guy’s?”
“Of course he did. Do you suppose the money was caught at the bottom of a spout after a shower?”
“Hendon, dear Hendon!”
“There, it’s no use to be so squeamish. If those last hadn’t been paid, it would have been like throwing away all that had been paid before.”
“I did not know of this—I did not know of this!”
“Don’t, don’t, dear! I couldn’t help it. I used to feel as bad as you do; but this cursed poverty hardens a man. I fought against it; but Poynter was always after me, tempting me, standing dinners when I was as hungry as a hound; giving me wine and cigars. He has almost forced money on me lots of times; and at—at other times—when I’ve had a few glasses—I haven’t refused it. It’s all Janet’s fault.”
“Hendon!”
“Well, so it is!” cried the young fellow passionately. “If she hadn’t thrown me over as she did—”
“To save you from additional poverty.”
“No, it didn’t; it made me desperate, and ready to drink when a chap like Poynter was jolly, and forced champagne on me. I was as proud as you are once, but my pride’s about all gone!”