Spencer's smile was more amused than ever, as he regarded his genial friend. Spencer was only thirty, and Tommy was at least old enough to be his father. But there were times when the younger man thought he saw more clearly than the elder.
"Let us put it at this, Tommy. Mrs. L'Estrange, being in somewhat straitened circumstances, supplements her meagre income by card-playing, at which I have no doubt she is an adept."
And here, the usually placid Tommy interposed hotly: "You may say of Mrs. L'Estrange what you like. But, if you propose to offer any derogatory remarks about Miss Keane, I would rather not listen to them."
And Spencer kept a curb on his tongue. Was this fat, comical-looking little man, a most unromantic figure, violently in love with Miss Stella Keane, and her sworn champion? Far be it from him to disturb his faith in this seductive siren, if it were so.
"It's all right, old chap," he said quietly. "I am not going to make any remarks, derogatory or otherwise, about Miss Keane. I think I will adopt your suggestion. Let us adjourn to Mrs. L'Estrange's flat. If one loses fifty or a hundred one may have a good time."
"You will see the most charming girl in London," cried Esmond in enthusiastic tones. It struck Spencer, as a peculiar phase of his t friend's detachment, that, being in love with the girl himself, he should be so anxious to introduce her to a younger man, who might, presumably, be his rival.
For there could be no question of rivalry between the two men, apart from their ages. Spencer was tall, athletic, handsome: Tommy Esmond was—just Tommy Esmond—rotund, comical in appearance, and insignificant.
Moreover, Spencer had other qualifications which are not without their influence on the fair sex. He had a considerable fortune, and he was the next in succession to an ancient earldom. If the Earl of Southleigh, a widower, did not marry again, he would succeed to the title and estates. He was, in every sense of the term, an eligible parti.
The long, weary war was drawing to its close. The two men were dining at the fashionable "Excelsior" and were now about half-way through their dinner.
Spencer had the bearing of a soldier, and he would have been at the Front long ago, but no doctor could be found who would pass him. To all appearance, he possessed the thews and sinews of an athlete, but the stalwart, manly frame covered an incurably weak heart, which played him strange tricks at times. He was serving his country in the best way open to him, and doing good, sound clerical work in a Government Office.