“You mean, Clive, because so many of them are——?”
“Yes, if you must put it that way,” he said.
There was a pause, then Sylvia went on: “Let us discuss the practical problem, Clive. Don’t you think it would have been better if Roger, instead of going off and getting drunk, had set about getting himself cured?”
The other looked at her, with evident surprise. “You mean in that case Celeste might marry him?”
“You say the boys are all alike, Clive; and we can’t turn our girls into nuns. Why didn’t some of you fellows point that out to Roger?”
“The truth is,” said Clive, “we tried to.” There was a little more cordiality in his manner, since Sylvia had shown such a unexpected amount of intelligence.
“Well?” she asked. “What then?”
“Why, he wouldn’t listen to anything.”
“You mean—because he was drunk?”
“No, we had him nearly sober. But you see—” And Clive paused for a moment, painfully embarrassed. “The truth is, Roger had been to a doctor, and been told it might take him a year or two to get cured.”