"I don't know quite. I think I'll ask Kenyon."
"No, don't. Let's do it together. I don't want Kenyon to see,—I mean I'd rather Kenyon was out of it. I'd rather that you were the only one to look on at the remainder of my humiliation,—that's the word. He knows quite enough as it is."
"All right!" said Peter. "Hurry up, then. We'll go round to the apartment and see Ita Strabosck. I cashed a cheque on the way back from Mr. Townsend's. We can't let her go out into the street with nothing in her pocket,—that's impossible."
Graham nodded. He couldn't find words to say what he felt about it all. There was a look of acute pain on his pale face as he went into the bath-room.
And then Peter sat down at his brother's table and wrote a little note to Betty:
My own dearest Baby:
Something has happened and your father—who's a fine fellow and well worthy of you—believes that I'm such a rotter that he's told me to consider myself scratched. I'm going to play the game by him for your sake as well as his. Don't worry about it. Leave everything to me. I won't ask you to go on loving me and believing in me, because that you must do, just as I shall go on loving you and believing in you. It has to be. I've got to think things over to see what can be done.
In the meantime, and as long as I live,
Your Peter.
He addressed the letter and put the envelope in his pocket. Then he went to the bath-room and called out: "Old man, shall I have some breakfast sent up for you?" The answer was, "No; the sight of food would make me sick."
Graham dressed quickly and nothing more was said by either of the brothers until they went out into the street together.
"We'll get a cab," said Peter.
"No; I'm too broke. Let's walk."