"It won't be much trouble to her to make a fool of Fillingford—he's a conceited ass. She'll use him as long as she wants him, and then—!" He snapped his fingers scornfully.
Had he struck on that explanation for himself? Possibly—he had studied Jenny. Yet it sounded rather like an inspired version of her policy. The weak spot about it was that, by now, Jenny could have little need of Fillingford—except in one capacity. As her husband he could give her a good deal; he could offer her no obvious advantages in any other relation. I wondered that this did not occur to Octon—and then decided that it did. He knew that the argument was weak; he hoped that I would afford it the buttress of my confirmatory opinion.
"Well?" he growled impatiently, for I said nothing.
"I didn't understand that you asked me a question—and, if you had, I shouldn't have answered it. It's no business of mine to consider how Miss Driver treats Fillingford or means to treat him."
At that his temper suddenly gave, his hold on himself was broken. "But it is of mine, by God!" he cried.
Our eyes met for a moment; then he turned his head away, and a long silence followed. At last he spoke in a low voice.
"I call other people fools—I'm a fool myself. I can't hold my tongue. I oughtn't to be at large. But it's pretty hard to bottle it all up sometimes." He laid his hand on my knee. "I shall be obliged if you'll forget that little remark of mine, Austin."
"I can't forget it. I can take no notice of it," I said.
"It's not merely that I gave myself away—which, after all, doesn't matter as you happen to be a loyal fellow—I know that" (he smiled for a moment), "having tried to pump you myself. But what I said was against a pledge I had given."
"I wish you hadn't said it—most heartily. I'll treat it as unsaid—so far as my allegiance allows."