Sturtevant too was dull and lethargic. He was not emotional like the other, but though a man of less charm, his attainments were greater, he knew more, and now he also was struggling to think—to work.
They were both silent for some time while the darkness closed in, the rain outside pattering with an added weariness and the wind wailing up from the river. At last Sturtevant took up a glass from the table and threw it into the fire with an oath.
"Laugh, you devil!" he said, "shout! be merry! be brilliant!"
"Can't," said Gobion, "I keep my brilliancy for the comparative stranger."
"——and the positive Pilgrim, I suppose."
"Exactly. Hallo! there's someone at the door." He shouted, "Yes!" it was one of his little mannerisms never to say, "Come in." The door opened and a girl came round the corner of the screen. It was Blanche Huntley, Wild's mistress, dressed in a long macintosh dripping with rain.
Both men jumped up surprised, Gobion helping her to take off her ulster, while Sturtevant put her umbrella in the stand.
She came to the fireside, a girl not unlike a dainty illustration in a magazine, very neatly got up with a white froth of lace round her neck, and a chic black rosette at her waist. Certainly a pretty girl, with a sweet rather tired mouth, well-marked eyebrows, and dark eyes somewhat full, the lids stained with bistre. Gobion knew her, having met her at Wild's, and rather liked her. She was a girl with ideas, and might have made something of her life if she had not been mixed up in the famous Wrampling Divorce Case, and been forced to leave her type-writing office in the City.
When ruin comes a man begs, a woman sells.
She sat down, Gobion introducing her to Sturtevant, who looked with some interest. "Fashion-plate in distress," was his mental comment. Gobion thought, "Her youth is the golden background which shows up the sadness of her lot; lucky man Wild though," a very fair index to the individuality of the two men as far as such things go.