class="smcap">Drummle.

Why do you?

Aubrey.

Never mind.

Drummle.

Now, I can quite understand a man wishing to be married in the dark, as it were.

Aubrey.

You can?

Drummle.

In your place I should very likely adopt the same course.

Aubrey.

You think so?

Drummle.

And if I intended marrying a lady not prominently in Society, as I presume you do—as I presume you do——

Aubrey.

Well?

Drummle.

As I presume you do, I'm not sure that I should tender her for preliminary dissection at afternoon tea-tables.

Aubrey.

No?

Drummle.

In fact, there is probably only one person—were I in your position to-night—with whom I should care to chat the matter over.

Aubrey.

Who's that?

Drummle.

Yourself, of course. [Going to Aubrey and standing beside him.] Of course, yourself, old friend.

Aubrey.

[After a pause.] I must seem a brute to you, Cayley. But there are some acts which are hard to explain, hard to defend——

Drummle.

To defend——?

Aubrey.

Some acts which one must trust to time to put right.

[Drummle watches him for a moment, then takes up his hat and coat.

Drummle.

Well, I'll be moving.

Aubrey.

Cayley! Confound you and your old friendship! Do you think I forget it? Put your coat down! Why did you stay behind here? Cayley, the lady I am going to marry is the lady—who is known as—Mrs. Jarman.

[There is a pause.

Drummle.

[In a low voice] Mrs. Jarman! are you serious?

[He walks up to the fireplace, where he leans upon the mantelpiece uttering something like a groan.

Aubrey.

As you've got this out of me I give you leave to say all you care to say. Come, we'll be plain with each other. You know Mrs. Jarman?

Drummle.

I first met her at—what does it matter?

Aubrey.

Yes, yes, everything! Come!

Drummle.

I met her at Homburg, two—three seasons ago.

Aubrey.

Not as Mrs. Jarman?

Drummle.

No.

Aubrey.

She was then——?

Drummle.

Mrs. Dartry.

Aubrey.

Yes. She has also seen you in London, she says.

Drummle.

Certainly.

Aubrey.

In Aldford Street. Go on.

Drummle.

Please!

Aubrey.

I insist.

Drummle.

[With a slight shrug of the shoulders.] Some time last year I was asked by a man to sup at his house, one night after the theatre.

Aubrey.

Mr. Selwyn Ethurst—a bachelor.

Drummle.

Yes.

Aubrey.

You were surprised therefore to find Mr. Ethurst aided in his cursed hospitality by a lady.

Drummle.

I was unprepared.

Aubrey.

The lady you had known as Mrs. Dartry? [Drummle inclines his head silently.] There is something of a yachting cruise in the Mediterranean too, is there not?

Drummle.

I joined Peter Jarman's yacht at Marseilles, in the Spring, a month before he died.

Aubrey.

Mrs. Jarman was on board?

Drummle.

She was a kind hostess.

Aubrey.

And an old acquaintance?

Drummle.

Yes.

Aubrey.

You have told your story.

Drummle.

With your assistance.

Aubrey.

I have put you to the pain of telling it to show you that this is not the case of a blind man entrapped by an artful woman. Let me add that Mrs. Jarman has no legal right to that name, that she is simply Miss Ray—Miss Paula Ray.

Drummle.

[After a pause.] I should like to express my regret, Aubrey, for the way in which I spoke of George Orreyed's marriage.

Aubrey.

You mean you compare Lady Orreyed with Miss Ray? [Drummle is silent.] Oh, of course! To you, Cayley, all women who have been roughly treated, and who dare to survive by borrowing a little of our philosophy, are alike. You see in the crowd of the Ill-used only one pattern; you can't detect the shades of goodness, intelligence, even nobility there. Well, how should you? The crowd is dimly lighted! And, besides, yours is the way of the world.

Drummle.

My dear Aubrey, I live in the world.

Aubrey.

The name we give our little parish of St. James's.

Drummle.

[Laying a hand on Aubrey's shoulder.] And you are quite prepared, my friend, to forfeit the esteem of your little parish?

Aubrey.

I avoid mortification by shifting from one parish to another. I give up Pall Mall for the Surrey hills; leave off varnishing my boots and double the thickness of the soles.

Drummle.

And your skin—do you double the thickness of that also?

Aubrey.

I know you think me a fool, Cayley—you needn't infer that I'm a coward into the bargain. No! I know what I'm doing, and I do it deliberately, defiantly. I'm alone; I injure no living soul by the step I'm going to take; and so you can't urge the one argument which might restrain me. Of course, I don't expect you to think compassionately, fairly even, of the woman whom I—whom I am drawn to——