His reply was a smile of approval, and “Excellent! The best epigram I’ve heard since I left Paris. You’re as great a genius at making phrases as you are at making money.”
I caught him speculating in Wall Street—“One must amuse one’s self,” he said, cheerfully. But I was not to be put off this time. I had had some reports on his life—many wild escapades, many fantastic extravagances. The terrible downfall of two young men of his set made me feel that the time for discipline was at hand. But, as I was very busy, I had only time to read him a brief lecture on speculation and to exact from him a promise that he would keep out of Wall Street. He gave the promise so reluctantly that I felt confident he meant to keep it.
A week ago yesterday morning he came into my bedroom, before I was up, and said to my valet, Pigott: “Just take yourself off, Piggy!” And, when we were alone, he began: “Mother said I was to come straight to you.”
“What is it?” I demanded, my anger rising—experience has taught me that the more offhand his manner, the more serious the offence I should have to repair.
“I broke my promise to you about speculating, sir,” he replied, much as if he were apologising for having jostled me in a crowd.
I sat up in bed, feeling as if I were afire. “And does a gentleman keep his promises only when he feels like it?” I asked.
“But that isn’t all,” he went on. “My pool’s gone smash—you were on the other side and I never suspected it. And I’ve got a million to pay, besides——”
He took out his cigarette case, and lighted a cigarette with great deliberation.
“Besides—what?” I said, wishing to know all before I began upon him.
“I wrote your name across the back of a bit of paper,” he answered, hiding his face in a big cloud of smoke.