Armstrong’s brow was dark as night now, and he drew his breath hard.
“Do you know what that meant, Armstrong? You are silent. I’ll tell you. It meant breaking the heart of a true woman, and the wrecking of a man. He had ability—as a painter—and he could have made a name, but as soon as he woke from his mad dream, all was over. The zest had gone out of life. You know the song, lad—‘A kiss too long—and life is never the same again.’”
“I made you my friend, Joe Pacey,” said Armstrong huskily, “but by what right do you dare to come preaching your parables here?”
“Parable, man? It is the truth. Eight? I have a right to tell you what wrecked my life—the story of twenty years ago.”
“Joe!”
There was a gripping of hands.
“Ah! That’s better. I tell you because history will repeat itself. Armstrong, lad, you have often talked to me of the one who is waiting and watching across the seas. Look at me—the wreck I am. For God’s sake—for hers—your own, don’t follow in my steps.”
Neither spoke for a few minutes, and then with his voice changed—
“I can’t humbug, Joe,” said Armstrong. “Of course I understand you. You mean about—my commission.”
“Yes, and I did warn you, lad. It is the talk of every set I’ve been into lately. There is nothing against her, but her position with that miserable hound, Dellatoria, is well-known. He insults her with his mistresses time after time. Her beauty renders her open to scandal, and they say what I feared is true.”