Winfield entered, and he had no need to be told what had happened. For this reason he asked no questions, he only said:
"Come and have some dinner, Leicester."
"Look," said Leicester, showing him the unopened letter.
"Yes, I see, old man. Come and have some dinner."
"Good," replied Leicester feverishly, "that's it, dinner! Haven't I always maintained that there was no love affair in the world but could be cured by a good dinner and a bottle of champagne? We'll prove it old man. Dinner, that's it; and afterwards—we'll make a night of it somewhere."
A new light had come into his eyes, and even Winfield, who was no saint, saw that it was evil.
"I haven't touched a drop of whisky for months," went on Leicester. "I've been a whining dog, running at the heels of—but there, I'll make up for lost time to-night. Come on, Winfield!"
"Hadn't we better dress for dinner?" said Winfield. "I always keep some dress clothes here at the club."
"Hang dressing! Let's go as we are; how can we be better dressed for a drinking bout than in riding attire? Tally ho! my boy. 'If she be not fair to me, what care I how fair she be?' That's the proper spirit, isn't it? I've been a sort of a dog led by a string for the last few months, now I am free again. I was becoming the kind of man that every one should despise, a whining sentimentalist. I had actually begun to talk about the moral aspect of things. What of that? It's never too late to mend, eh, Winfield? Off with the trappings, have done with shams, Richard's himself again! Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die."
His face was still pale, but his eyes shone with a mad light.