Toftrees saw the last hesitation and removed it.
"Oh, he'll get over that drinking habit," he said, though he knew well that Ingworth was not bursting with that alone. "It's bad, of course, that such a man should drink. I was horribly upset—and so was my wife—at that dinner at the Amberleys'. But he'll get over it. And after all you know—poets!"
"It isn't that, Toftrees. It's a good deal worse than that. In fact I really do want your advice."
"My dear fellow you shall have it. We are friends, I hope, though not of long standing. Fire away."
"Well, then, it's just this. Lothian's wife is one of the most perfect women I have ever met. She adores him. She does everything for him, she's clever and good looking, sympathetic and kind."
Toftrees made a slight, very slight, movement of repugnance. He was a man who was temperamentally well-bred, born into a certain class of life. He might make a huge income by writing for housemaids at sixpence, but old training and habit became alive. One did not listen to intimate talk about other men's wives.
But the impulse was only momentary, a result of heredity. His interest was too keen for it to last.
"Yes?"
"Lothian doesn't care a bit for his wife—he can't. I know all about it, and I've seen it. He's doing a most blackguardly thing. He's running after a girl. Not any sort of girl, but a lady."—
Toftrees grinned mentally, he saw how it was at once with the lad.