Griff sat up in his chair and glared across the hearth. "You're an immaculate fool, Roddick. Every time you save your wife, conscience or no conscience, you stab the woman you are in love with.—Was she bad to-night?"
"Worse than I've seen her yet. The poor devil of a nurse is half-killed with the work. She said I could leave her for the rest of the night; but I shouldn't have done if Janet had not been here. I expect to have the nurse on my hands next. Then there's Janet; how am I going to steer her through the pretty mess she has got herself into?"
Griff had got hold of the right end of his idea now. "Tell me more about your wife," he said eagerly. "Where does she live?"
"At a cottage called Bents Foot, half a mile further up the hill. You seem interested in the woman; are you thinking of dropping a piece of paste-board on her?" snapped Roddick, with bitter levity.
"You're sure you can't get a divorce?" went on Griff, with the same eager persistence.
"No, I tell you!"
The other gave vent to a sigh that was oddly suggestive of relief. "She can live any length of time, can't she?"
"Heaven only knows. Years ago she ought to have died; years ahead she may be living. And meanwhile my little darling is killing herself by inches."
Again that quick, sharp sigh from Griff.
"Killing herself by inches?" he repeated.