“I don’t intend to ask.”
“I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Belmire.
“No, I don’t think you do; I don’t think you can. I’m sorry, but.... Hullo! there’s that fellow Vulning. By Jove! he’s coming in here. Drunk as a tinker, too, I’ll swear.”
She shrugged her beautiful shoulders. She sat silent, her chin propped on her hands, staring into vacancy with stormy, scornful eyes. Yes, she was lovely. Now that he had told her everything he was half sorry. She was lost to him. She would turn on him presently, and call him a most unmerciful bounder. Well, he deserved it. He waited. He felt sorry for her, she seemed so bowled over. Then suddenly she turned to him, fixing him with an intense gaze.
“I counted on you. Oh, how I counted on you!”
Tears and reproach were in her voice. At that moment he almost yielded, almost promised her the money. Even as he hesitated, his attention was attracted by Paul Vulning.
Vulning was standing at the bar. He was dressed in a golfing suit and looked as if he had been on a long debauch. His face was puffy and muddily red, his cheeks and chin bristly; his eyes fishy when they were not wild. He stared round the room, and recognized Mrs. Belmire, but he did not notice Hugh.
“Hullo! Marion,” he cried. “Come on, old girl, and have a Scotch.”
She did not pay any attention, but continued to brood, her chin in her cupped hands. He shouted once more.
“Here, don’t be haughty. You weren’t always too proud to drink at a bar. Well, I’ll come over and join you.”