“Wingrave,” he said, “will you lend me some money?”
Wingrave looked at him with upraised eyebrows.
“I,” he remarked, “lend you money? Why should I?”
“Heaven knows,” Barrington answered. “It is you who have chosen to seek us out. You have forced upon us something which has at least the semblance of friendship. There is no one else whom I could ask. It isn’t only this damned Stock Exchange transaction. Everything has gone wrong with me for years. If I could have kept going till next July, I should have been all right. I have made a little success in the House, and I am promised a place in the next government. I know it seems queer that I should be asking you, but it is that—or ruin. Now you know how things are with me.”
“You are making,” Wingrave said quietly, “a mistake. I have not pretended or given the slightest evidence of any friendship for yourself.”
Barrington looked at him with slowly mounting color.
“You mean—”
“Precisely,” Wingrave interrupted. “I do not know what I might or might not do for Lady Ruth. I have not considered the subject. It has not, in fact, been presented to me.”
“It is the same thing,” Barrington declared hoarsely.
“Pardon me—it is not,” Wingrave answered.