"You have no choice," Max reminded him. "And if you will come to me I can find a way to help you. It wouldn't even be difficult. And you would have skilled nursing and attention. Come, it's either that or Trevor will have to be told. He'll see that you don't go back to starve in the streets."
"I will not have Mr. Mordaunt told," Bertrand said quickly and firmly.
"Then you will give me this promise," Max returned immovably.
With a gesture of helplessness the Frenchman yielded. "Eh bien, I promise."
"Good!" said Max. He laid Bertrand's hand down and rose.
Yet a moment he stood above him, looking downwards. "You keep your promises, eh?" he asked abruptly.
Bertrand flushed. "I am a man of honour," he said proudly.
"Yes, I know you are." Max touched his shoulder with a boyish, propitiatory movement. "I beg your pardon, old chap. I'd be one myself if I could."
"But you—but you—" Bertrand protested in confusion.
"I am a Wyndham," said Max, with a bitter smile. "It doesn't run in our family, that. But I'll play the game with you, man, just because you're straight."