“Tolerably well,” said I, with indifference.
“What a strange character he is,” rejoined Thornton; “I also have known him for some years,” and again Thornton looked pryingly into my countenance. Poor fool, it was not for a penetration like his to read the cor inscrutabile of a man born and bred like me, in the consummate dissimulation of bon ton.
“He is very rich, is he not?” said Thornton, after a brief silence.
“I believe so,” said I.
“Humph!” answered Thornton. “Things have grown better with him, in proportion as they grew worse with me, who have had ‘as good luck as the cow that stuck herself with her own horn.’ I suppose he is not too anxious to recollect me—‘poverty parts fellowship.’ Well, hang pride, say I; give me an honest heart all the year round, in summer or winter, drought or plenty. Would to God, some kind friend would lend me twenty pounds.”
To this wish I made no reply. Thornton sighed.
“Mr. Pelham,” renewed he, “it is true I have known you but a short time—excuse the liberty I take—but if you could lend me a trifle, it would really assist me very much.”
“Mr. Thornton,” said I, “if I knew you better, and could serve you more, you might apply to me for a more real assistance than any bagatelle I could afford you would be. If twenty pounds would really be of service to you, I will lend it you, upon this condition, that you never ask me for another farthing.”
Thornton’s face brightened. “A thousand, thousand—” he began.
“No,” interrupted I, “no thanks, only your promise.”