way of filling both our pockets, and he wouldn't hear of it. What sort of a friend do you call that?'
Pay him and get rid of him. There was the course of proceeding suggested by the private counsellor in Mountjoy's bosom.
'Have you got the publisher's estimate of expenses?' he asked.
The doctor instantly produced the document.
To a rich man the sum required was, after all, trifling enough. Mountjoy sat down at the writing-table. As he took up a pen, Mr. Vimpany's protuberant eyes looked as if they would fly out of his head.
'If I lend you the money—' Hugh began.
'Yes? Yes?' cried the doctor.
'I do so on condition that nobody is to know of the loan but ourselves.'
'Oh, sir, on my sacred word of honour—' An order on Mountjoy's bankers in Paris for the necessary amount, with something added for travelling expenses, checked Mr. Vimpany in full career of protestation. He tried to begin again: 'My friend! my benefactor—'
He was stopped once more. His friend and benefactor pointed to the clock.
'If you want the money to-day, you have just time to get to Paris before the bank closes.'
Mr. Vimpany did want the money—always wanted the money; his gratitude burst out for the third time: 'God bless you!'
The object of that highly original form of benediction pointed through the window in the direction of the railway station. Mr. Vimpany struggled no longer to express his feelings—he had made his last sacrifice to appearances—he caught the train.
The door of the room had been left open. A voice outside said: 'Has he gone?'
'Come in, Fanny,' said Mountjoy. 'He will return to London either to-night or to-morrow morning.'
The strange maid put her head in at the door. 'I'll be at the terminus,' she said, 'and make sure of him.'
Her head suddenly disappeared, before it was possible to speak to her again. 'Was there some other person outside? The other person entered the room; it was Lord Harry. He spoke without his customary smile.
'I want a word with you, Mr. Mountjoy.'
'About what, my lord?'
That direct question seemed to confuse the Irishman. He hesitated.
'About you,' he said, and stopped to consider. 'And another person,' he added mysteriously.
Hugh was constitutionally a hater of mysteries. He felt the need of a more definite reply, and asked for it plainly:
'Does your lordship associate that other person with me?'
'Yes, I do.'
'Who is the person?'
'My wife.'
CHAPTER XXX
SAXON AND CELT
WHEN amicable relations between two men happen to be in jeopardy, there is least danger of an ensuing quarrel if the friendly intercourse has been of artificial growth, on either side. In this case, the promptings of self- interest, and the laws of politeness, have been animating influences throughout; acting under conditions which assist the effort of self-control. And for this reason: the man who has never really taken a high place in our regard is unprovided with those sharpest weapons of provocation, which make unendurable demands on human fortitude. In a true attachment, on the other hand, there is an innocent familiarity implied, which is forgetful of ceremony, and blind to consequences. The affectionate freedom which can speak kindly without effort is sensitive to offence, and can speak harshly without restraint. When the friend who wounds us has once been associated with the sacred memories of the heart, he strikes at a tender place, and no considerations of propriety are powerful enough to stifle our cry of rage and pain. The enemies who have once loved each other are the bitterest enemies of all.
Thus, the curt exchange of question and answer, which had taken place in the cottage at Passy, between two gentlemen artificially friendly to one another, led to no regrettable result. Lord Harry had been too readily angry: he remembered what was due to Mr. Mountjoy. Mr. Mountjoy had been too thoughtlessly abrupt: he remembered what was due to Lord Harry. The courteous Irishman bowed, and pointed to a chair. The well-bred Englishman returned the polite salute, and sat down. My lord broke the silence that followed.
'May I hope that you will excuse me,' he began, 'if I walk about the room? Movement seems to help me when I am puzzled how to put things nicely. Sometimes I go round and round the subject, before I get at it. I'm afraid I'm going round and round, now. Have you arranged to make a long stay in Paris?'
Circumstances, Mountjoy answered, would probably decide him.
'You have no doubt been many times in Paris before this,' Lord Harry continued. 'Do you find it at all dull, now?'
Wondering what he could possibly mean, Hugh said he never found Paris dull—and waited for further enlightenment. The Irish lord persisted:
'People mostly think Paris isn't as gay as it used to be. Not such good plays and such good actors as they had at one time. The restaurants inferior, and society very much mixed. People don't stay there as long as they used. I'm told that Americans are getting disappointed, and are trying London for a change.'
Could he have any serious motive for this irrelevant way of talking? Or was he, to judge by his own account of himself, going round and round the subject of his wife and his guest, before he could get at it?
