They went into the dining-room and sat down to dinner. Valentine was
apparently rather amused at playing the host in another man's house.
It was novel, and entertained him. He was obviously in splendid spirits,
ate with good appetite and drank the champagne with an elation not
unlike the elation of the dancing wine. More than once, too, he alluded
to Julian's absence and probable occupation, as if both the one and
the other were bouquets in his cap, or laurels in some crown which he
alone could wear. Dr. Levillier noticed it and sought to draw him on
in that direction, and to lead him to some open acknowledgment of his
share in Julian's rapidly proceeding ruin. But Valentine changed the
conversation into another channel without apparently observing his
companion's intention, or deliberately frustrating it. He chattered
of a thousand things, mostly of topics that are the common converse
of London dinner-tables. The doctor joined in. To a listening stranger
the two men would have seemed old friends, pleasantly at ease and secure
with one another. Yet the doctor was doing detective duty all the time.
And Valentine! was he not secretly revelling in that destruction of a
human soul that was galloping apace?
Course succeeded course.
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