Fabian laughed. "Can’t get the company I want, so what I can get I have, Henri, my lad."
"Don’t drink." Henri laid his freehand on Fabian’s knee.
"Whiskey-wine is meat and drink to me—I was born on New Year’s Day, old coffin-face. Whiskey-wine day, they ought to call it. Holy! the empty jars that day."
Henri sighed. "That’s the drink, Fabian," he said patiently. "Give up the company. I’ll be better company for you than that girl, Fabian."
"Girl? What the devil do you mean!"
"She, Nell Barraway, was the company I meant, Fabian."
"Nell Barraway—you mean her? Bosh! I’m going to marry her, Henri."
"You mustn’t, Fabian," said Henri, eagerly clutching Fabian’s sleeve.
"But I must, my Henri. She’s the best-looking, wittiest girl I ever saw—splendid. Never lonely with her."
"Looks and brains isn’t everything, Fabian."
"Isn’t it, though? Isn’t it? Tiens, you try it!"
"Not without goodness." Henri’s voice weakened.
"That’s bosh. Of course it is, Henri, my dear. If you love a woman, if she gets hold of you, gets into your blood, loves you so that the touch of her fingers sets your pulses going pom-pom, you don’t care a sou whether she is good or not."
"You mean whether she was good or not?"
"No, I don’t. I mean is good or not. For if she loves you she’ll travel straight for your sake. Pshaw, you don’t know anything about it!"
"I know all about it."
