Toftrees knew how lavish with help and kindness Lothian had been to Dickson Ingworth. For himself, he detested Lothian. The bitter epigrams Lothian had made upon him in a moment of drunken unconsciousness were by no means forgotten. The fact that Lothian had probably never meant them was nothing. They had some truth in them. They were uttered by a superior mind, they stung still.
"Oh, he's no friend of mine," Ingworth said in a bitter voice.
"Really? I know, of course, that you have disapproved of much that Mr. Lothian seems to be doing just now, but I thought you were still friends. It is a pity. Whatever he may do, there are elements of greatness in the man."
"He is a blackguard, Toftrees, a thorough blackguard."
"I am sorry to hear that. Well, you needn't have any more to do with him, need you? He isn't necessary to your literary career any more. And even if you had not come into your inheritance, your Italian work has put you in quite a different position."
Ingworth nodded. He puffed quickly at his cigar. He was bursting with something, as the elder and shrewder man saw, and if he was not questioned he would come out with it in no time.
There was silence for a space, and, as Toftrees expected, it was broken by Ingworth.
"Look here, Toftrees," he said, "you are discreet and I can trust you."
The other made a grave inclination of his head—it was coming now!
"Very well. I don't want to say anything about a man whom I have liked, and who has been kind to me. But there are times when one really must speak, whatever the past may have been—aren't there?"