“Mean beast! He was lunching at the Brandes’ yesterday. But to return to our subject”—feeling conscious that his clever companion was slipping away from it. “You are off to-morrow, and before we go I really think we ought to take the opportunity of each appearing in our true and real character. Are you, like Barkis, willing?”
Clarence coloured a deep red, and looked annoyed.
“No—I am not—willing,” he said with an effort. “We have only a few months more to play our parts, and I vote we see them out. I adopted the rôle of purse-bearer and leader to satisfy a caprice of yours, as you know, and I mean to stick to it till we are in Bombay Harbour.”
“Well, I am very sorry now I was such a sensitive, vain idiot, as to get into a regular funk, simply because a few third-rate globe-trotters threw themselves at my money-bags. Why on earth did you not tell me that they were not a true specimen of Indian society? There are heaps of wealthy men out here—we have met them—heirs to titles, or really distinguished fellows, and no one bothers about them. I was too conceited and too great a fool.”
“It’s too late to think of that now!”—with easy scorn.
“No, better late than never! I intend to tell the Brandes and Mrs. Sladen, and Clifford, Scrope, Villiers, and one or two other fellows—that I am not what I seem.”
“You must reckon with me first!” cried Clarence, hoarsely. “Your confidences, which mean blazoning the truth from one end of Shirani to the other, will play the very devil with me!”
“Why? What do you mean?” asked Jervis, with an air of cool surprise.
“Cannot you see? I’ve dropped into my old set and my old temptations; I cannot resist a bit of a gamble. The name of ‘millionaire,’ given for fun, has gained me credit. I owe money all over the place—rent, club, bills, Manockjee; three thousand rupees would not clear me, and if it comes out, say, to-morrow, that I am their dear customer of former days, without a penny to bless myself with, they will all be on me like a pack of hounds. Give me time, and I will sell the ponies well up at Simla, pick up a race or two, and marry”—with a laugh—“the heiress.” (Never, to quote Lord Lytton, was there a man, who was an habitual gambler, otherwise than notably inaccurate in his calculations of probabilities in the ordinary affairs of life. Is it that such a man has become such a chronic drunkard of hope, that he sees double every chance in his favour?) “I am owed some money myself, but I must not press my debtor. However, I am safe to get it some day, and it’s a tidy sum. I have a first-rate book on Goodwood; I can’t lose, and I must win. All I want is time, a long day, your honour”—grinning at his companion; nevertheless, although he grinned, his mouth was working nervously at the corners.
“But surely there are a good many thousand rupees still at the agent’s?” asked Mark, rather blankly.