“Why did you not tell me? I might have helped you,” I broke in.
“No, no, Sis, you could not do anything. Balthasar has given me a hand a couple of times; he is a money-lender—under the rose—the financial pose is all rot. He gives ripping dinners with top-hole champagne—afterwards his guests play poker and chemin de fer; it is all kept dark. He has, as I say, helped me out once or twice, but somehow, since you and he had that scrap I have a feeling that he is no longer my jovial and open-handed ally, but as hard as the Gun Rock!”
Here Ronnie came to a dead stop, and appeared to be suddenly engrossed in his own sombre reflections.
“But what is it now?” I ventured. “What has brought your affairs to such a terrible crisis?”
“Crisis indeed!” he echoed, turning to face me, and in the soft light of an Indian night I could see that his face was convulsed with emotion. “Eva, you will be horrified when I tell you that—I have laid hands on the regimental funds!”
“Oh, Ronnie!” I gasped.
“You may well say, ‘Oh, Ronnie!’ That’s the awful part of the whole thing—my rage for gambling goaded me to mad recklessness; that and the sudden change in the reliefs have done for me.”
“But what have the reliefs to say to you?” I stammered.
“You know we were all supposed to be going home in February and everyone was selling off. We sold our polo ponies for a long price, and the sum was set aside for a team at home.”
“Yes, yes—I know that.”