But his disquiet persisted, like a warning of disaster.
“He didn’t want to come back with me to-night. He wants to get away, to go down there—to a climate that means the end of him. What’s the matter with him? Is it pride? Doesn’t he want to accept favors from me?”
Wickham knew it was not that, for Charles had asked him for a job.
“And I’ve been careful,” he thought. “I haven’t said a word or done a thing to hurt him.”
He had never even mentioned the threadbare overcoat and the shabby hat, or suggested a loan of money. He had noticed that Charles was always supplied with tobacco, that he was able to pay car fares and buy newspapers, and so on. He must have a little money left.
“And he can start in next week with Carrick,” thought Wickham. “Then he’ll be all right.”
But why did he want to get away?
“Restless,” his brother decided. “He’s lived in the tropics so long that the idea of going to Nicaragua appealed to him, just for the moment.”
The car turned in at the gates of Wickham’s place. He saw before him the lights of his own home shining through the rain; and mechanically he braced himself for an ordeal.
It was his inflexible rule to enter his house with an amiable and agreeable manner. When the parlor maid opened the door, he gave her something as much like a smile as he could manage, bade her good evening:, and entered the drawing-room.