“You fool!” he said.
“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” laughed Gerard, returning to his whiskey and soda. Hugh seated himself again in his swivel-working library chair, and ran his fingers through his wavy hair impatiently.
“For heaven’s sake let us talk of something else,” he said. “What have you been doing with yourself in Edinburgh?”
Gerard prolonged his visit for a quarter of an hour, and then went home, leaving Hugh to his blackmailer’s interests.
“You are back early,” said Irene.
“Yes. He is in the midst of his briefs. He is a lucky beggar. I wish I had half as many as he.”
“Why, you inconsequent dear,” said Irene. “Only the other day you were saying you were tired of practice—wanted to give it up and travel. Surely ‘semper mutabile’ ought to refer to men——”
“Well, why shouldn’t a man get sick of work?” Irene could find no reply, but laid her hand in his. Whatever Gerard said was right.
“How is poor Hugh?” she asked.
Gerard laughed with masculine ungraciousness and withdrew his fingers from her clasp, so as to press down the tobacco in his pipe.