He had found Mrs. Larne and Phyllis in the sitting-room, and Phyllis had been crying; he was sure she had been crying; and that memory still infected the sentiments evoked by later happenings. Old Heythorp had said: "You'll burn your fingers." The process had begun. Having sent her daughter away on a pretext really a bit too thin, Mrs. Larne had installed him beside her scented bulk on the sofa, and poured into his ear such a tale of monetary woe and entanglement, such a mass of present difficulties and rosy prospects, that his brain still whirled, and only one thing emerged clearly-that she wanted fifty pounds, which she would repay him on quarter-day;for their Guardy had made a settlement by which, until the dear children came of age, she would have sixty pounds every quarter. It was only a question of a few weeks; he might ask Messrs. Scriven and Coles; they would tell him the security was quite safe. He certainly might ask Messrs. Scriven and Coles--they happened to be his father's solicitors; but it hardly seemed to touch the point. Bob Pillin had a certain shrewd caution, and the point was whether he was going to begin to lend money to a woman who, he could see, might borrow up to seventy times seven on the strength of his infatuation for her daughter. That was rather too strong! Yet, if he didn't she might take a sudden dislike to him, and where would he be then?
Besides, would not a loan make his position stronger? And then--such is the effect of love even on the younger generation--that thought seemed to him unworthy. If he lent at all, it should be from chivalry--ulterior motives might go hang! And the memory of the tear-marks on Phyllis's pretty pale-pink cheeks; and her petulantly mournful: "Oh! young man, isn't money beastly!" scraped his heart, and ravished his judgment. All the same, fifty pounds was fifty pounds, and goodness knew how much more; and what did he know of Mrs.
Larne, after all, except that she was a relative of old Heythorp's and wrote stories--told them too, if he was not mistaken? Perhaps it would be better to see Scrivens'. But again that absurd nobility assaulted him. Phyllis! Phyllis! Besides, were not settlements always drawn so that they refused to form security for anything?
Thus, hampered and troubled, he hailed a cab. He was dining with the Ventnors on the Cheshire side, and would be late if he didn't get home sharp to dress.
Driving, white-tied--and waist-coated, in his father's car, he thought with a certain contumely of the younger Ventnor girl, whom he had been wont to consider pretty before he knew Phyllis. And seated next her at dinner, he quite enjoyed his new sense of superiority to her charms, and the ease with which he could chaff and be agreeable.
And all the time he suffered from the suppressed longing which scarcely ever left him now, to think and talk of Phyllis. Ventnor's fizz was good and plentiful, his old Madeira absolutely first chop, and the only other man present a teetotal curate, who withdrew with the ladies to talk his parish shop. Favoured by these circumstances, and the perception that Ventnor was an agreeable fellow, Bob Pillin yielded to his secret itch to get near the subject of his affections.
"Do you happen," he said airily, "to know a Mrs. Larne--relative of old Heythorp's--rather a handsome woman-she writes stories."Mr. Ventnor shook his head. A closer scrutiny than Bob Pillin's would have seen that he also moved his ears.
"Of old Heythorp's? Didn't know he had any, except his daughter, and that son of his in the Admiralty."Bob Pillin felt the glow of his secret hobby spreading within him.
"She is, though--lives rather out of town; got a son and daughter. Ithought you might know her stories--clever woman."Mr. Ventnor smiled. "Ah!" he said enigmatically, "these lady novelists! Does she make any money by them?"Bob Pillin knew that to make money by writing meant success, but that not to make money by writing was artistic, and implied that you had private means, which perhaps was even more distinguished. And he said:
"Oh! she has private means, I know."
Mr. Ventnor reached for the Madeira.
"So she's a relative of old Heythorp's," he said. "He's a very old friend of your father's. He ought to go bankrupt, you know."To Bob Pillin, glowing with passion and Madeira, the idea of bankruptcy seemed discreditable in connection with a relative of Phyllis. Besides, the old boy was far from that! Had he not just made this settlement on Mrs. Larne? And he said:
"I think you're mistaken. That's of the past."Mr. Ventnor smiled.
"Will you bet?" he said.
Bob Pillin also smiled. "I should be bettin' on a certainty."Mr. Ventnor passed his hand over his whiskered face. "Don't you believe it; he hasn't a mag to his name. Fill your glass."Bob Pillin said, with a certain resentment:
"Well, I happen to know he's just made a settlement of five or six thousand pounds. Don't know if you call that being bankrupt.""What! On this Mrs. Larne?"
Confused, uncertain whether he had said something derogatory or indiscreet, or something which added distinction to Phyllis, Bob Pillin hesitated, then gave a nod.
Mr. Ventnor rose and extended his short legs before the fire.
"No, my boy," he said. "No!"
Unaccustomed to flat contradiction, Bob Pillin reddened.
"I'll bet you a tenner. Ask Scrivens."
Mr. Ventnor ejaculated:
"Scrivens---but they're not--" then, staring rather hard, he added:
"I won't bet. You may be right. Scrivens are your father's solicitors too, aren't they? Always been sorry he didn't come to me.
Shall we join the ladies?" And to the drawing-room he preceded a young man more uncertain in his mind than on his feet....
