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“It wouldn’t have under ordinary circumstances, but he happened to love her, you see. He believed in her, and—Look here, I met him a few years ago, a friend of mine called Waterhouse introduced him—they had been at Cambridge together. He was—he was a very fine fellow. And last year I met him again in North Queensland, a hopeless wreck, past salving. And if it hadn’t been for Millicent Travers—I beg her pardon, Lady Blount—he would be an honour to any place to-day.”

“How did you know about Millicent? Did he tell you?” asked Pamela, and her words were edged.

“He did. He was very drunk. That was her doing too.”

“I don’t think I can have much respect for a man who lets a woman ruin him,” said Pamela. “He can’t be very strong.”

“Is Lord Blount very strong and—respectable?” asked Tony irrelevantly.

Pamela flushed. Even she had heard stories about Lord Blount. “I don’t think you make your friend sound desirable,” said she.

“He isn’t, now. Once, any woman might have been proud of him, but now the sooner he dies the better, I think. You see, she promised—But it’s no use talking. Only he was an affectionate sort of beggar, and sensitive. A worse man might not have gone under so easily. That doesn’t make me feel more charitable, though. If he really hadn’t been a gentleman—if his ways had grated on her—I could have understood it. Those little things count. But just because—The idea is poisonous.”

“You are speaking of my friend,” said Pamela.

“I am thinking of mine,” answered Tony, and in the electric pause that followed the curtain went up, which was perhaps just as well, since each was too angry to speak.

Tony went out, with some of the others, as soon as the next interval began. In the foyer he met Billy Lister,