She would not allow herself to disbelieve it. He did not ask her for money again, but some months later, when she had returned to London, and Cecil, at his own desire, was still at work, although the Long Vacation had already begun, she was sent for one evening by the old pawnbroker.
“What mischief has this boy of yours been getting into?” Uncle Alfred demanded, without preamble.
“What’s the matter?”
“The matter is that the lad has written to me for money. I should have thought he knew me better, but he seemed fairly desperate. I can only suppose that some lewd woman has enticed him.”
“Good gracious, Uncle A., what a way you do put things!” Rose protested in vigorous counter-attack.
“The language of Scripture is good enough for me, Rose. Let the squeamish stop up their ears like the adder that is deaf, it will not alter facts. Your son has written and asked me for what he is pleased to call a loan. Needless to say, he offers no security.”
“Well, you’ve got his word, poor child. I’m sure he means to repay it, whatever it is.”
Rose was temporizing, trying to gain command of herself in the new dismay that had come upon her.
“I have not built up a successful business to the glory of God and to the satisfaction of my old age by giving loans to ‘poor children’ on the strength of their intentions of repaying them,” observed Uncle Alfred witheringly. “I have here Cecil’s letter. Do you wish to see it?”
“Yes—no. I daresay he’d much rather I didn’t. I can guess what he says, well enough.”