“Serious?” Dr. Ringwood inquired indifferently.
“I expect he'd be glad of a divorce, if that's what you mean. But I doubt if he'll get it, in spite of all the scandal about Yvonne. If I can read the signs, she's just keeping the Hassendean cub on her string for her own amusement, though she certainly advertises her conquest all over the shop. He's not much to boast about: one of these young pseudo-romantic live-your-own-lifer's with about as much real backbone as a filleted sole.”
“A bit rough on Silverdale,” commented Dr. Ringwood apathetically.
Trevor Markfield's short laugh betrayed his scorn.
“A man's an ass to get tied up to a woman. Silverdale got caught by one side of her—oh, she's very attractive on that side, undoubtedly. But it didn't last, apparently, for either of them—and there you are! Outside their own line, women are no use to a man. They want too much of one's time if one marries them, and they're the very devil, generally. I've no sympathy with Silverdale's troubles.”
Dr. Ringwood, obviously bored, was seeking for a fresh subject.
“Comfortable place, the Institute?” he inquired.
Markfield nodded with obvious approval.
“First-rate. They're prepared to spend money like water on equipment. I've just come in from the new Research Station they've put up for agricultural experiments. It's a few miles out of town. I've got a room or two in it for some work I'm doing in that line.”
Before Dr. Ringwood could reply, the telephone bell trilled and with a stifled malediction he stepped over to the instrument.