Mrs. Larne was murmuring: 

“It would be so sweet of you if you could manage it today”; and her hand slid over his chest.  “Oh!  You have brought your cheque-book—­what a nice boy!”

Bob Pillin took it out in desperation, and, sitting down at the bureau, wrote a cheque similar to that which he had torn and burned.  A warm kiss lighted on his eyebrow, his head was pressed for a moment to a furry bosom; a hand took the cheque; a voice said:  “How delightful!” and a sigh immersed him in a bath of perfume.  Backing to the door, he gasped: 

“Don’t mention it; and—­and don’t tell Phyllis, please.  Good-bye!”

Once through the garden gate, he thought:  ’By gum!  I’ve done it now.  That Phyllis should know about it at all!  That beast Ventnor!’

His face grew almost grim.  He would go and see what that meant anyway!

3

Mr. Ventnor had not left his office when his young friend’s card was brought to him.  Tempted for a moment to deny his own presence, he thought:  ‘No!  What’s the good?  Bound to see him some time!’ If he had not exactly courage, he had that peculiar blend of self-confidence and insensibility which must needs distinguish those who follow the law; nor did he ever forget that he was in the right.

“Show him in!” he said.

He would be quite bland, but young Pillin might whistle for an explanation; he was still tormented, too, by the memory of rich curves and moving lips, and the possibilities of better acquaintanceship.

While shaking the young man’s hand his quick and fulvous eye detected at once the discomposure behind that mask of cheek and collar, and relapsing into one of those swivel chairs which give one an advantage over men more statically seated, he said: 

“You look pretty bobbish.  Anything I can do for you?”

Bob Pillin, in the fixed chair of the consultor, nursed his bowler on his knee.

“Well, yes, there is.  I’ve just been to see Mrs. Larne.”

Mr. Ventnor did not flinch.

“Ah!  Nice woman; pretty daughter, too!” And into those words he put a certain meaning.  He never waited to be bullied.  Bob Pillin felt the pressure of his blood increasing.

“Look here, Ventnor,” he said, “I want an explanation.”

“What of?”

“Why, of your going there, and using my name, and God knows what.”

Mr. Ventnor gave his chair two little twiddles before he said

“Well, you won’t get it.”

Bob Pillin remained for a moment taken aback; then he muttered resolutely: 

“It’s not the conduct of a gentleman.”

Every man has his illusions, and no man likes them disturbed.  The gingery tint underlying Mr. Ventnor’s colouring overlaid it; even the whites of his eyes grew red.”

“Oh!” he said; “indeed!  You mind your own business, will you?”

“It is my business—­very much so.  You made use of my name, and I don’t choose—–­”