He shook his head and struggled with his monstrous mirth.

“Keith!  What ’ave you done?  You surely haven’t been backing any bills?”

He laughed outright this time, for the sheer misery of the thing.

“No, oh dear me, no.  Not in your sense at least.”

“There isn’t any other sense.  Either you did or you didn’t; and I think you might tell me which.”

“It’s not quite so simple, dear.  I didn’t back his bills, d’you see, but I backed him.’

“Can they make you responsible?  Have they got it down in black and white?”

“Nobody can make me responsible, except myself.  It’s what they call a debt of honour, Flossie.  Those debts are not always down in black and white.”

“Why can’t you speak plain?  I really can’t think what you mean by that.”

“Can’t you?  I’ll endeavour to explain.  A debt of honour, Beaver dear, is a debt that’s got to be paid whoever else goes unpaid.”

“A fine lot of honour about that,” said she.

Was it possible to make the Beaver understand?  He, gave her a slight outline of the situation; and he really could not complain of any fault in the Beaver’s intelligence.  For, by dint of a masterly cross examination, she possessed herself of all the details, even of those which he most desired to keep from her.  After their last great explanation there had been more than a tacit agreement between them that the name of Lucia Harden was never to come up again in any future discussion; and that name he would not give.  She, however, readily inferred it from his silence.

“You needn’t tell me the lady’s name,” said she.

“I certainly needn’t.  The name has nothing whatever to do with it.’”

“Oh, hasn’t it?  You’ll not make me believe that you’d ’ave taken it up this way for any one but her.”

“Whether I would or wouldn’t doesn’t affect the point of honour.”

“I don’t see where it comes in there.”

“If you don’t I can’t make you see it.”

“I said I didn’t see where it comes in—­there.  I know what’s honourable as well as you, though I daresay my notions wouldn’t agree with yours.”

“Upon my soul, I shouldn’t wonder if they didn’t!”

“Look here, Keith.  Did you ever make Miss Harden any promise to pay her that money when your father died?”

“Of course I didn’t—­How could I?  Do you suppose she’d have let me do anything of the sort?”

“I don’t know what she wouldn’t have let you do.  Anyhow you didn’t make her any promise.  Think of the promises and promises you’ve made to me.”

“I do think of them.  Have I broken one of them?”

“I don’t say you have yet; but you want to.”

“I don’t wa—­I won’t break them, I’ll keep every one of the blessed lot, if you’ll only give me time.”

“Give you time?  I know what that means.  It means that I’m to go back and earn my living.  I can slave till I drop for all you care—­while you go and throw away all that money on another woman.  And I’m to give you time to do it in!”