Rose was silent.
The old pawnbroker was gazing into the fire, his shrewd, lined face as expressionless as ever.
Rose Aviolet looked deadly tired.
“Won’t you let me take you home? You look so tired,” said Dr. Lucian gently.
“I’d rather get this settled first. What are you going to say to Cecil’s letter, Uncle?”
“I shall remind him that though his sins be as scarlet, they can be washed white as snow in the Blood of the Lamb. Also I shall point out to him that a man of my business experience is not the person to be approached with foolish and unbusiness-like suggestions of a loan, when what is really meant is a gift.”
“And you won’t send him any money?”
“Certainly not.”
“Well, you’re right,” said Rose, drawing a deep breath. “I can’t say anything else. You’re right.”
“Rose,” said the doctor, “would you like me to go to Cambridge and see the boy? I’ll try and find out what’s wrong, and I’ll come and report to you as soon as I get back.”