"I hope you didn't make a fool of yourself this evening," he said.
"As how?" queried Robert, wondrously subdued to all appearance, though aching to give the other what he called "a bit of his mind."
"I understand you made after Sylvia and the artist, meaning to chastise somebody."
"You were wrong," said Robert slowly. "You nearly always are. I make mistakes myself, but I own up handsomely. You don't. That's where we differ, see?"
"I see differences," and Hilton helped himself to a glass of claret.
"Trenholme, the artist Johnny, is a clever chap—slightly cracked, as they all are, but dashed clever. By gad, you ought to see the picture he's painted of Sylvia. Anyhow, you will see it. I've bought it."
"Really?"
"I said I'd buy it—same thing. He'll jump at the offer. It'll hang in my dressing-room. I don't suppose Sylvia will kick about a trifle like that when we're married."
Hilton was holding the glass of wine to his lips. His hand shook, and he spilled a little, but he drank the remainder.
"When did you decide to marry Sylvia?" he inquired, after a pause which might have been needed to gain control of his voice.