At the end of the opera he intercepted Gaisford and begged him to wait and come home for a drink as soon as the Maitlands had been packed into their car. The distraction of the stage and of the music, the presence of Ivy and the touch of her hand, which sought his as soon as the curtain went up, kept him from thinking clearly; and he needed the shrewd brain and blunt speech of one who had been a second father to him in order to correct his own impulses.
From Covent Garden to Ryder Street the two men drove in silence. Only when the doctor had been given an arm-chair, a brandy and soda and a cigar did he say:
“Well, my son, who’s worrying you now? It’s a mistake to let people worry you.”
“How d’you know any one’s worrying me?,” asked Eric.
“Because you’re one of these damned reserved people who never squeal when they’re hurt themselves, but simply go through the world inviting other people to hurt them. Drive ahead. To-morrow’s Sunday, so I don’t mind if you keep me up late.”
Eric threw himself into one chair and put his feet up in another.
“It’s in strict confidence, of course,” he began slowly. “A girl I know slightly has been victimized by some one whom for brevity I may describe as an “officer and a gentleman”; now she has to face the consequences. My interest in the thing’s confined to keeping her from chucking herself under the nearest train. What’s to be done, Gaisford?”
The doctor hoisted himself on to a smaller chair, where he took up a favourite attitude with feet round the legs and his arms folded over the back.
“I want a lot more data than that,” he grunted. “Is she the girl who was with you to-night?” Eric stared at his cigar without answering. “Good! I don’t want to know her name—or the man’s. I take it she’s a girl in a good social position. And I take it that you’re not proposing that I should run my head against the law? Good again! Why doesn’t he marry her?”
“Doesn’t want to. Never meant to.”