"Yes. Where does he live? I can't leave without saying how-d'ye-do to him. Do you know his story, by the way?"
"From start to finish. Poor beggar, he's in a tight place."
"I sometimes think," said Dereham, with a carelessness that sat oddly on his words, "I sometimes think that if I had lost all that makes life worth living, I should go and strangle that beast-wife of Roddick's. Not that I should, really; but it would be the truest service one could do him."
"I have played with that notion, too; it would be a tough problem to settle, if——," said Lomax, musingly.
When Dereham had gone, Kate came and stood by the mantelshelf, and looked down at her husband, who was sprawling contentedly in his big easy-chair. He was well satisfied with their little luncheon-party. Truth to tell, he had been anxious as to the effect which Kate would produce on this half-tender, half-cynical friend of his butterfly days; it was not, he told himself, that he really cared a straw that his own opinion should be endorsed, but he did shrink from the thought that Dereham might go away and vaguely pity him—that smacked too much of insult to his wife. Dereham, however, had left no doubt of his admiration for Kate. As he shook Griff's hand at the door, he had muttered, "You'll do, old fellow. Can I come to see your wife again?" And this meant more than it seemed—it meant, in brief, that he envied his friend his prize. And a man likes to feel this, be he never so secure in his own judgment.
So, being content, it did not occur to Griff that there was any underlying trouble in his wife's eyes—though the trouble was more in evidence than it had been when he noticed it the night before. She crept to his knee presently, and took his two big hands in hers.
"Griff!"
"Yes, little woman? How very solemn we sound."
"You won't be angry if I ask you a question? Did I—did I shame you, Griff, before your friend? I know so little of the world, and——"
"Child, be quiet! How dare you hint at such a thing?"