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A wave of disgust and pity swept over Blythe. He had scanty tolerance for the minor weaknesses of poor human nature, and such frailties as drink and self-indulgence generally touched him not at all. At the first glance he was inclined to the opinion that Harley had been knocked over by the first breath of trouble and had flown to the drug as the cheapest way out of the tangle. If this was so, then it seemed to Blythe that he was wasting his time on an object utterly unworthy of Nettie Frond's affections. He was almost inclined to laugh at himself for a sentimental fool for ever putting his hand to this thing at all.
Why should he worry about a weak fool who lacked the moral courage to fight for his own honour?