"It didn't take me much guessing to reckon up why. Between you
and me, you are not the first man who's been up against it on
account of that young woman. Don't stop me," he begged. "I know
how you've been feeling. It was a right good idea of yours to
come here. Others before you have tried the shady side of New
York and Paris, and it's the wrong treatment. It's Hell, that's
what it is, for them. Now that young woman--we got to speak of
her--is about the most beautiful and the most fascinating of her
sex--I'll grant that to start with--but she isn't worth the life
of a snail, much less the life of a strong man."
"You are, quite right," Tavernake confessed, shortly. "I know I
was a fool--a fool! If I could think of any adjective that would
meet the case, I'd use it, but there it is. I chucked things and
I came here. You haven't come down to tell me your opinion of
me, I suppose?"
"Not by any manner of means," Pritchard admitted. "I came down
first to tell you that you were a fool, if it was necessary.
Since you know it, it isn't. We'll pass on to the next stage,
and that is, what are you going to do about it?"
"It is in my mind at the present moment," Tavernake announced,
"to leave here. The only trouble is, I am not very keen about
London."
Pritchard nodded thoughtfully.
"That's all right," he agreed. "London's no place for a man,
anyway. You don't want to learn the usual tricks of
money-making. Money that's made in the cities is mostly made
with stained fingers.
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