‘There was a fishfag of classic Billingsgate, who had broken her husband’s nose with a sledgehammer fist, and swore before the magistrate, that the man hadn’t a crease to complain of in her character. We are condemned, Mr. Carling, sometimes to suffer in the flesh for the assurance we receive of the inviolability of those moral fortifications.’
‘Character, yes, valuable—I do wish you had named to-night for doing me the honour of dining with me!’ said the lawyer impulsively, in a rapture of the appetite for anecdotes. ‘I have a ripe Pichon Longueville, ‘65.’
‘A fine wine. Seductive to hear of. I dine with my friend Victor Radnor. And he knows wine.—There are good women in the world, Mr. Carling, whose characters...’
‘Of course, of course there are; and I could name you some. We lawyers...!’
‘You encounter all sorts.’
‘Between ourselves,’ Carling sank his tones to the indiscriminate, where it mingled with the roar of London.
‘You do?’ Fenellan hazarded a guess at having heard enlightened liberal opinions regarding the sex. ‘Right!’
‘Many!’
‘I back you, Mr. Carling.’
The lawyer pushed to yet more confidential communication, up to the verge of the clearly audible: he spoke of examples, experiences. Fenellan backed him further.