sort of a man Philip Selwyn is. He permitted Alixe to sue him for
absolute divorce--and, to give her every chance to marry Ruthven, he
refused to defend the suit. That sort of chivalry is very picturesque,
no doubt, but it cost him his career--set him adrift at thirty-five, a
man branded as having been divorced from his wife for cause, with no
profession left him, no business, not much money--a man in the prime of
life and hope and ambition, clean in thought and deed; an upright, just,
generous, sensitive man, whose whole career has been blasted because he
was too merciful, too generous to throw the blame where it belonged. And
it belongs on the shoulders of that Mrs. Jack Ruthven--Alixe
Ruthven--whose name you may see in the columns of any paper that
truckles to the sort of society she figures in."

Austin stood up, thrust his big hands into his pockets, paced the room
for a few moments, and halted before Gerald.

"If any woman ever played me a dirty trick," he said, "I'd see that the
public made no mistake in placing the blame. I'm that sort"--he
shrugged--"Phil Selwyn isn't; that's the difference--and it may be in
his favour from an ethical and sentimental point of view. All right; let
it go at that. But all I meant you to understand is that he is every
inch a man; and when you have the honour to meet him, keep that fact in
the back of your head, among the few brains with which Providence has
equipped you."

"Thanks!" said Gerald, colouring up. He cast his cigarette into the
empty fireplace, slid off the edge of the table, and picked up his hat.
Austin eyed him without particular approval.

"You buy too many clothes," he observed. "That's a new suit, isn't it?"