“I’m not quite up to the mark,” he admitted, “Just a bit of a headache—that’s all. I say, Mr. Fothergill,” he went on, plunging at once in medias res, “I’m awfully sorry, but I shan’t be able to settle up with you to-day.”
“Settle up with me!” repeated Mr. Fothergill, putting down his glass untasted, and looking surprised. “I don’t understand you. Settle what up?”
“Why, the money I lost last night,” Cecil explained.
Mr. Fothergill leaned back in his chair and looked into Cecil’s white, anxious face with an astonishment which, if simulated, was certainly admirably done. Then he broke into a little laugh.
“My dear Lord Silchester,” he said energetically, “you can’t for one moment suppose that I expected anything of the sort. Why, I scarcely took our play seriously at all, and I should very much prefer that we said no more about it. Pray don’t be offended,” he added, hastily, for the sensitive colour had flushed into Cecil’s cheeks. “I’ll tell you how we’ll arrange it. You shall give me your I O U’s and pay them just as it is convenient. Any time within the next five or six years will do. But as to taking a sum like that from a b—a man who is not of age—why, it’s absurd! I feel rather ashamed of myself for having been so fortunate.”
A look of intense relief had stolen into Cecil’s face, but the reaction was a little too sudden. He left us abruptly and stood looking out of the window for a minute or two. Then he returned, smiling, and held out his hand to Mr. Fothergill.
“Mr. Fothergill, you’re a brick!” he declared emphatically.
“Not another word, please!” Mr. Fothergill answered, smiling. “Now, look here, Lord Silchester,” he added. “Drink this glass of wine.”
Cecil obeyed him promptly.
“And now you’ll be so good as to have some luncheon with me,” Mr. Fothergill continued. “I don’t care what you say. I don’t believe you’ve eaten anything to-day. Waiter, bring me those other cutlets I ordered and the game-pie, and—yes, I think we might venture on another bottle of wine.”