“Who listens to a drunken man?”

“He was sober enough to mean it. Besides, it’s true. I know the girl—Esme Waybury, a pretty, flaxen little strumpet—week-end wife to any bidder—understudying at the theatre. You needn’t doubt the facts. Half the company knows by this time.”

Clem rapped his closed fist upon the table.

“I hate this,” he exclaimed, “hate it! What will she do—Eve?”

“God knows. It’ud be the last knock. God knows how she’ll take it. Anything might happen—she’s extraordinary, and she’s counted on him so much—built up a future of hopes. It’s pitiable. If he fails her altogether⁠—”

“If?”

“As he will tomorrow night.”

“Tss!”

“Sounds sordid enough, doesn’t it?”

“Well, what then?”