“Irene didn’t quite step ready-made out of heaven.
“It’s a precious good thing she didn’t. Otherwise she would not have looked upon you and me.”
“You’re a poet, my friend, and I’m a philosopher.”
“You’re a married man, I suppose you mean, and I am a damned fool. You ought to be separated from Irene for a year or two. Then you would appreciate her.”
“There is no necessity, I assure you,” retorted Gerard, coolly. “And as for you’re being a damned fool—well, I have known you too long not to have my own ideas about it. Anyhow, you are growing gunpowdery—not yourself. What’s wrong?”
“My liver’s out of order,” said Hugh.
An acquaintance came up, and they discussed other matters. But it was only afterwards that Hugh recognised how near to a quarrel he had come with his best friend. A less equable temper than Gerard’s might have flared up in resentment at his angry speeches.
As it was, Gerard seemed to forget the incident, but it aided Hugh to realise his own irritability.
Shortly before Whitsuntide Minna went to Brighton. Her excuse to Hugh was the prospect of a colossal male dinner party, given to half the Hebrew bucket-shop keepers in London. If she remained in town she would have to play Herodias’ daughter at this orgie. As the only condition on which she would consent to do this—that she should receive Goldberg’s head on a charger—was incapable of fulfilment, she was withdrawing from the scene altogether. But she did not go without Hugh’s promise to join her during the Whitsuntide recess.
As soon as the courts rose, he went down. It was lovely weather. Minna looked radiant with youth and happiness. On the evening of his arrival she sat with him on the same seat on the Parade as had witnessed the beginning of her escapade with the young guardsman. She thought thrillingly of the difference between the two experiences. The dusk of the warm evening was closing round them. From the head of the pier came the faint, languorous strains of a waltz. She edged nearer to him, laid her hand on his knee.