"To me, George. There's not much merit in being faithful to a promise. But when you're not bound in any way, when it's just a matter of your own pride.... Sonia must show if she can make good three years hence. If we both come up true—well, there you are."
He threw his cigarette away, yawned, and sank lower into the chair.
"When did all this happen?" I asked.
"Oh, a year ago. More. It was just after the row."
"Well, what's the trouble to-night?"
O'Rane's eyes, always an interesting study in rapid emotion, became charged with sudden anger.
"She thinks I've cooled off because I don't write," he said. "George, I'm flesh and blood, I can't write—not letters that Lady Dainton would pass—to a girl I want to be my wife."
"Why don't you go and see her occasionally?" I suggested.
"I've got other work."