He ordered champagne with his dinner that evening and drank far too much of it, hoping it would make him feel happy. He explained to the brother barrister who shared his chambers—an amiable man who knew any amount about Gregorian Music, and tippled—that it was the funeral banquet to his career.
"My dear old chap," said his friend, "for God's sake, don't you take to the bottle as well. See what it has made of me."
"There are worse things than the bottle," said George, wildly.
"You don't mean to say it's a woman."
The unhappy young man hung his head.
"Shoot her!" cried his friend; "shoot her! A rope round your neck is a trifle compared to a woman, and hanging is quick."
George hid his face in the sofa cushions and sobbed.
"You've been drinking," said the friend, "and your nerves are queer. But shoot her! She's carrion already."