"I shall wait," the Duke went on with the plan he had been forced to make out for himself. "I shall hold on, keep along a bit, and then—I shall go to the other woman." And the Duke, as he raised his eyes to his companion, fixed his glass firmly and felt that he challenged in every way Bulstrode's disapproval. "The Duchess will get her divorce—it goes without saying—will get her divorce. Why she has not already done so I can't imagine."
As Westboro' appeared inclined to leave the subject there, Bulstrode pressed him further: "And then?"
"I fancy I shall marry the other woman."
Bulstrode started. The complexion of the idea was so foreign to him that he could not for a moment let himself think that he understood it.
"You will," he said, "marry one woman whilst you distinctly love another?"
The Duke nodded. "Love," he reflected, "I begin to believe I don't know anything about. It must, of course, suppose some sort of return. If, as you say, I love another woman, I'm not made of the stuff that can go along doing so without anything on her side."
The dressing clock at the bedside on the little stand chimed the hour. It was two o'clock. The Duke of Westboro' rose.
"You must think me a colossal ass, my dear friend, but if it had not been for your awfully good companionship and your kindness, I dare say that by now I should have already made some sort of fatal blunder."
At the door Bulstrode put his hand on his friend's arm, and, as though nothing in the conversation apart from the Duchess had any real significance, he said simply:
"You are then, in sum, simply waiting...?"