“You know, papa, that that is impossible.”
“I cannot say what with him is possible or impossible. He is bound by none of the ordinary rules of mankind.”
That evening Lopez returned to his dinner in Manchester Square, which was still regularly served for him and his wife, though the servants who attended upon him did so under silent and oft-repeated protest. He said not a word more as to Arthur Fletcher, nor did he seek any ground of quarrel with his wife. But that her continued melancholy and dejection made anything like good-humour impossible, even on his part, he would have been good-humoured. When they were alone she asked him as to their future destiny. “Papa tells me you are not going,” she began by saying.
“Did I not tell you so this morning?”
“Yes;—you said so. But I did not know you were earnest. Is it all over?”
“All over—I suppose.”
“I should have thought that you would have told me with more—more seriousness.”
“I don’t know what you would have. I was serious enough. The fact is, that your father has delayed so long the payment of the promised money that the thing has fallen through of necessity. I do not know that I can blame the Company.”
Then there was a pause. “And now,” she said, “what do you mean to do?”
“Upon my word I cannot say. I am quite as much in the dark as you can be.”
“That is nonsense, Ferdinand.”
“Thank you! Let it be nonsense if you will. It seems to me that there is a great deal of nonsense going on in the world; but very little of it as true as what I say now.”
“But it is your duty to know. Of course you cannot stay here.”
“Nor you, I suppose—without me.”
“I am not speaking of myself. If you choose, I can remain here.”
“And—just throw me overboard altogether.”
“If you provide another home for me, I will go to it. However poor it may be I will go to it, if you bid me. But for you—of course you cannot stay here.”
“Has your father told you to say so to me?”
“No;—but I can say so without his telling me. You are banishing him from his own house. He has put up with it while he thought that you were going to this foreign country; but there must be an end of that now. You must have some scheme of life?”
“Upon my soul I have none.”
“You must have some intentions for the future?”
“None in the least. I have had intentions, and they have failed;—from want of that support which I had a right to expect. I have struggled and I have failed, and now I have got no intentions. What are yours?”
“It is not my duty to have any purpose, as what I do must depend on your commands.” Then again there was a silence, during which he lit a cigar, although he was sitting in the drawing-room. This was a profanation of the room on which even he had never ventured before, but at the present moment she was unable to notice it by any words. “I must tell papa,” she said after a while, “what our plans are.”
“You can tell him what you please. I have literally nothing to say to him. If he will settle an adequate income on us, payable of course to me, I will go and live elsewhere. If he turns me into the street without provision, he must turn you too. That is all that I have got to say. It will come better from you than from me. I am sorry, of course, that things have gone wrong with me. When I found myself the son-in-law of a very rich man I thought that I might spread my wings a bit. But my rich father-in-law threw me over, and now I am helpless. You are not very cheerful, my dear, and I think I’ll go down to the club.”
He went out of the house and did go down to the Progress. The committee which was to be held with the view of judging whether he was or was not a proper person to remain a member of that assemblage had not yet been held, and there was nothing to impede his entrance to the club, or the execution of the command which he gave for tea and buttered toast. But no one spoke to him; nor, though he affected a look of comfort, did he find himself much at his ease. Among the members of the club there was a much divided opinion whether he should be expelled or not. There was a strong party who declared that his conduct socially, morally, and politically, had been so bad that nothing short of expulsion would meet the case. But there were others who said that no act had been proved against him which the club ought to notice. He had, no doubt, shown himself to be a blackguard, a man without a spark of honour or honesty. But then—as they said who thought his position in the club to be unassailable—what had the club to do with that? “If you turn out all the blackguards and all the dishonourable men, where will the club be?” was a question asked with a great deal of vigour by one middle-aged gentleman who was supposed to know the club-world very thoroughly. He had committed no offence which the law could recognise and punish, nor had he sinned against the club rules. “He is not required to be a man of honour by any regulation of which I am aware,” said the middle-aged gentleman. The general opinion seemed to be that he should be asked to go, and that, if he declined, no one should speak to him. This penalty was already inflicted on him, for on the evening in question no one did speak to him.
He drank his tea and ate his toast and read a magazine, striving to look
