"Nothing. Why?"
I lay back in my chair and looked him up and down.
"You've forgotten to light your cigarette," I pointed out. "You're shaking as if you'd got malaria, and wherever your mind may be, it's not in this room and it's not attending to me."
"I'm sorry," he apologised, sitting down. "I'm rather tired."
To belie his words he jumped up again and began pacing feverishly up and down before the open balcony window.
"Let's hear about it," I urged.
"You can't do any good."
"Let me judge of that."
He paused irresolutely and stood leaning his head against the frame of the window and looking out at the flaming sky-signs on the far side of the river.
"It won't do any good," he repeated over his shoulder. "Nobody 'ud believe you, but—I don't know, you might try. She must be warned. Sylvia, I mean. She's absolutely on the brink, and if some one doesn't save her, she'll be over. I can't interfere, I should only precipitate it. Will you go, Toby? She might listen to you. It's worth getting your face laid open to keep her out of danger. Will you go?"