“You're going away for a season on a brilliant tour to regain tone. You're going to Brighton, or Scarborough, or Prawle Point, to see the ships go by. And you're going at once. Isn't it odd? I'll take care of Binkie, but out you go immediately. Never resist the devil. He holds the bank. Fly from him. Pack your things and go.”
“I believe you're right. Where shall I go?”
“And you call yourself a special correspondent! Pack first and inquire afterwards.”
An hour later Torpenhow was despatched into the night for a hansom.
“You'll probably think of some place to go to while you're moving,” said Dick. “On to Euston, to begin with, and—oh yes—get drunk tonight.”
He returned to the studio, and lighted more candles, for he found the room very dark.
“Oh, you Jezebel! you futile little Jezebel! Won't you hate me tomorrow!—Binkie, come here.”
Binkie turned over on his back on the hearth-rug, and Dick stirred him with a meditative foot.
“I said she was not immoral. I was wrong. She said she could cook. That showed premeditated sin. Oh, Binkie, if you are a man you will go to perdition; but if you are a woman, and say that you can cook, you will go to a much worse place.”