Bower, after one or two glances at him, lowered his voice to say: 

’I can’t think it’s altogether the right thing for Thyrza Trent to be there every morning helping him.  Of course you and me know as it’s all square, but other people might—­eh?  Grail ought to think of that—­eh?’

Now it had seemed to Mr. Bower, in his native wisdom, that any scandal about Thyrza would tickle Ackroyd immensely.  He imagined Luke bearing a deep grudge against the girl and against Grail—­for he knew that the friendship between Luke and the latter had plainly come to an end.  In his love of gossip, he could not keep the story to himself, and he thought that Ackroyd would be the safest of confidants.  In fact, though he spoke to Mrs. Butterfield as if he had conceived some deep plan of rascality, the man was not capable of anything above petty mischief.  He liked to pose in secret as a sort of transpontine schemer; that flattered his self-importance; but his ambition did not seriously go beyond making trouble in a legitimate way.  He did indeed believe that something scandalous was going on, and it would be all the better fun to have Ackroyd join him with malicious pleasure in a campaign against reputations.  Luke was a radical of the reddest; surely it would delight him to have a new cry against the patronising capitalist.

Ackroyd, having heard that whisper, looked up from his paper slowly.  And at once Bower knew that he had made a great miscalculation.

‘Other people might think what?’ Luke asked, with gravity passing into anger.

‘Well, well; you must take it as I meant it, old man.’  Bower was annoyed, and added:  ’No doubt Egremont likes to have a pretty gyurl to talk to every morning.  I don’t blame him.  Still, if I was Grail —­’

‘What the devil do you mean, Bower?  What’s all this about?’

Ackroyd clearly knew nothing.  The other recovered some of his confidence.

’Well, you needn’t let it go further.  It’s no good thinking the worst of people.  For all I know Grail sends her to help with the books, just because he can’t go himself.’

Luke laid down the paper, and said quietly: 

’Will you tell me all about it?  It’s the first I’ve heard.  What’s going on?’

Bower brought out his narrative, even naming the authority for it.  He took sips of whisky in between.  Ackroyd heard in silence, and seemed to dismiss his indignation.

‘There’s nothing in all that,’ he said at length.  ’Of course Grail knows all about it.  This Mrs. What’s-her-name seems to have too little to do.’

‘Well, there’s no knowing.’

‘And you’re going to tell this story all over Lambeth?’

‘Why, didn’t I ask you to keep it quiet?’

’Yes, Bower, you did.  And I mean to.  And—­look here!  If you’d been a man of my own age, for all we’ve known each other a goodish time, I should have sent you spinning half across the room before now.  So that’s plain language, and you must make what you like of it!’