When Leonard Everard parted from Stephen he did so with a feeling of dissatisfaction: firstly, with Stephen; secondly, with things in general; thirdly, with himself.  The first was definite, concrete, and immediate; he could give himself chapter and verse for all the girl’s misdoing.  Everything she had said or done had touched some nerve painfully, or had offended his feelings; and to a man of his temperament his feelings are very sacred things, to himself.  
‘Why had she put him in such a ridiculous position?  That was the worst of women.  They were always wanting him to do something he didn’t want to do, or crying . . . there was that girl at Oxford.’
 
Here he turned his head slowly, and looked round in a furtive way, which was getting almost a habit with him.  ‘A fellow should go away so that he wouldn’t have to swear lies.  Women were always wanting money; or worse: to be married!  Confound women; they all seemed to want him to marry them!  There was the Oxford girl, and then the Spaniard, and now Stephen!’  This put his thoughts in a new channel.  He wanted money himself.  Why, Stephen had spoken of it herself; had offered to pay his debts.  Gad! it was a good idea that every one round the countryside seemed to know his affairs.  What a flat he had been not to accept her offer then and there before matters had gone further.  Stephen had lots of money, more than any girl could want.  But she didn’t give him time to get the thing fixed . . . If he had only known beforehand what she wanted he could have come prepared . . . that was the way with women!  Always thinking of themselves!  And now?  Of course she wouldn’t stump up after his refusing her.  What would his father say if he came to hear of it?  And he must speak to him soon, for these chaps were threatening to County Court him if he didn’t pay.  Those harpies in Vere Street were quite nasty . . . ’  He wondered if he could work Stephen for a loan.
 
He walked on through the woodland path, his pace slower than before.  ‘How pretty she had looked!’  Here he touched his little moustache.  ‘Gad!  Stephen was a fine girl anyhow!  If it wasn’t for all that red hair . . . I like ’em dark better! . . . And her being such an infernal boss!’. . . Then he said unconsciously aloud:
 
‘If I was her husband I’d keep her to rights!’
 
Poor Stephen!
 
‘So that’s what the governor meant by telling me that fortune was to be had, and had easily, if a man wasn’t a blind fool.  The governor is a starchy old party.  He wouldn’t speak out straight and say, “Here’s Stephen Norman, the richest girl you are ever likely to meet; why don’t you make up to her and marry her?”  But that would be encouraging his son to be a fortune-hunter!  Rot! . . . And now, just because she didn’t tell me what she wanted to speak about, or the governor didn’t give me a hint so that I might be prepared, I have gone and thrown away the chance.  After all it mightn’t be so bad.  Stephen is a fine girl! . . . But she mustn’t ever look at me as she did when I spoke about her not obeying.  I mean to be master in my own house anyhow!
 
‘A man mustn’t be tied down too tight, even if he is married.  And if there’s plenty of loose cash about it isn’t hard to cover up your tracks . . . I think I’d better think this thing over calmly and be ready when Stephen comes at me again.  That’s the way with women.  When a woman like Stephen fixes her cold grey on a man she does not mean to go asleep over it.  I daresay my best plan will be to sit tight, and let her work herself up a bit.  There’s nothing like a little wholesome neglect for bringing a girl to her bearings!’ . . .
 
For a while he walked on in satisfied self-complacency.
 
‘Confound her! why couldn’t she have let me know that she was fond of me in some decent way, without all that formal theatrical proposing?  It’s a deuced annoying thing in the long run the way the women get fond of me.  Though it’s nice enough in some ways while it lasts!’ he added, as if in unwilling recognition of fact.  As the path debouched on the highroad he said to himself half aloud:
 
‘Well, she’s a mighty fine girl, anyhow!  And if she is red I’ve had about enough of the black! . . . That Spanish girl is beginning to kick too!  I wish I had never come across . . . ’
 
‘Shut up, you fool!’ he said to himself as he walked on.
 
When he got home he found a letter from his father.  He took it to his room before breaking the seal.  It was at least concise and to the point:
 
‘The enclosed has been sent to me.  You will have to deal with it yourself.  You know my opinion and also my intention.   The items which I have marked have been incurred since I spoke to you last about your debts.  I shall not pay another farthing for you.  So take your own course!
 
‘Jasper Everard.’
 
The enclosed was a jeweller’s bill, the length and the total of which lengthened his face and drew from him a low whistle.   He held it in his hand for a long time, standing quite still and silent.  Then drawing a deep breath he said aloud:
 
‘That settles it!  The halter is on me!  It’s no use squealing.  If it’s to be a red head on my pillow! . . . All right!  I must only make the best of it.  Anyhow I’ll have a good time to-day, even if it must be the last!’
 
That day Harold was in Norcester on business.  It was late when he went to the club to dine.  Whilst waiting for dinner he met Leonard Everard, flushed and somewhat at uncertain in his speech.  It was something of a shock to Harold to see him in such a state.
 
Leonard was, however, an old friend, and man is as a rule faithful to friends in this form of distress.  So in his kindly feeling Harold offered to drive him home, for he knew that he could thus keep him out of further harm.  Leonard thanked him in uncertain speech, and said he would be ready.  In the meantime he would go and play billiards with the marker whilst Harold was having his dinner.
 
At ten o’clock Harold’s dogcart was ready and he went to look for Leonard, who had not since come near him.  He found him half asleep in the smoking-room, much drunker than he had been earlier in the evening.
 
The drive was fairly long, so Harold made up his mind for a prolonged term of uneasiness and anxiety.  The cool night-air, whose effect was increased by the rapid motion, soon increased Leonard’s somnolence and for a while he slept soundly, his companion watching carefully lest he should sway over and fall out of the trap.  He even held him up as they swung round sharp corners.
 
After a time he woke up, and woke in a nasty temper.  He began to find fault in an incoherent way with everything.  Harold said little, just enough to prevent any cause for further grievance.  Then Leonard changed and became affectionate.  This mood was a greater bore than the other, but Harold managed to bear it with stolid indifference.  Leonard was this by time making promises to do things for him, that as he was what he called a ‘goo’ fell’,’ he might count on his help and support in the future.  As Harold knew him to be a wastrel, over head and ears in debt and with only the succession to a small estate, he did not take much heed to his maunderings.  At last the drunken man said something which startled him so much that he instinctively drew himself together with such suddenness as to frighten the horse and almost make him rear up straight.
 
‘Woa!  Woa!  Steady, boy.  Gently!’ he said, quieting him.  Then turning to his companion said in a voice hollow with emotion and vibrant with suppressed passion:
 
‘What was it you said?’
 
Leonard, half awake, and not half of that half master of himself, answered:
 
‘I said I will make you agent of Normanstand when I marry Stephen.’
 
Harold grew cold.  To hear of any one marrying Stephen was to him like plunging him in a glacier stream; but to hear her name so lightly spoken, and by such a man, was a bewildering shock which within a second set his blood on fire.
 
‘What do you mean?’ he thundered.  ‘You marry Ste . . . Miss Norman!  You’re not worthy to untie her shoe!  You indeed!  She wouldn’t look on the same side of the street with a drunken brute like you!  How dare you speak of her in such a way!’
 
‘Brute!’ said Leonard angrily, his vanity reaching inward to heart and brain through all the numbing obstacle of his drunken flesh.  ‘Who’s brute?  Brute yourself!  Tell you goin’ to marry Stephen, ’cos Stephen wants it.  Stephen loves me.  Loves me with all her red head!  Wha’re you doin’!  Wha!!’
 
His words merged in a lessening gurgle, for Harold had now got him by the throat.
 
‘Take care what you say about that lady! damn you!’ he said, putting his face close the other’s with eyes that blazed.  ‘Don’t you dare to mention her name in such a way, or you will regret it longer than you can think.  Loves you, you swine!’
 
The struggle and the fierce grip on his throat sobered Leonard somewhat.  Momentarily sobbed him to that point when he could be coherent and vindictive, though not to the point where he could think ahead.  Caution, wisdom, discretion, taste, were not for him at such a moment.  Guarding his throat with both hands in an instinctive and spasmodic manner he answered the challenge:
 
‘Who are you calling swine?  I tell............