"Yes. I had an interview with the man—the girl's fiancé and came home." He shrugged his shoulders, a bitter memory chasing away the softer emotions of the preceding moment. "What did I do? Well, I did what a dozen other fellows might have done in my place. I sought forgetfulness of the past by various means, tried to drown the thought of what had happened in every way I could, and merely succeeded in delivering myself over to a bondage a hundred times more terrible than that from which I was trying to escape."
For the first time Iris looked perplexed.
"I don't think I understand," she said, and again Anstice's face changed.
"No," he said, and his voice was gentle, "of course you don't. And there's no reason why you should. Let us leave the matter at that, Miss Wayne. I am grateful to you for listening so patiently to my story."
"Ah," she said, and her eyes were wistful, "but I should like to know what you meant just now. Won't you tell me? Or do you think I am too stupid to understand?"
"No. But I think you are too young," he said; and the girl coloured.
"Of course if you would rather not——"
Something in her manner made him suddenly change his mind.
"There is no reason why I should make a mystery of it," he said. "I hesitated about telling you because—well, for various reasons; but after all you might as well know the truth. I tried to win forgetfulness by the aid of drugs—morphia, to be exact."
He had startled her now.