“Well—old Beman seemed to think so. He came loping along—he has a funny walk, you know—and I didn’t see him. He doesn’t often come out. So he’d stopped right in front of me before I knew he was there. I looked up suddenly when I heard him speak, and I jumped up. He asked what the matter was, and I told him I had a headache, which was rash, I suppose, considering my reputation. Then he asked me why I was doing nothing, and I told him I’d finished what had been given me and was waiting for more. He grunted in a displeased sort of way, and went off. Then my head hurt me worse than ever, and I put my hands up to my forehead again. In about five minutes, back comes old Beman, and wants to see me in his room. What do you think he said? ‘An old and valued friend had warned him that I had intemperate habits.’ That was a pleasant way of opening the interview. Then he went on to say that he had paid no attention to the old and valued friend’s warning, but that I was so evidently suffering from the effects of over-indulgence this morning that he felt it his duty to say that he could not tolerate dissipated idlers in his house—or words to that purpose—and that as he had already convinced himself by a previous trial—that was a year ago, you know—that I had no taste for work, he begged me to consider myself as free from any engagement on the first of next month—which struck me as unnecessary warning, considering that I get no salary. That’s what happened.”
“It’s abominable!” cried Katharine. “It’s outrageous! But you didn’t take it quietly, like that, Jack? You said something?”
“Oh, yes—I said something—several things. I told him quite frankly about myself—how I’d been rather lively, but had given it all up months ago. It’s awful, how a thing like that sticks to one, Katharine! He was virtuously civil—but I can’t help liking old Beman, all the same. He didn’t believe a word I said. So I told him to ask Ham Bright, who’s their junior partner and is privileged to be believed. Unfortunately, Ham didn’t go to the Vanbrughs’ last night and couldn’t have sworn to the facts. But that makes no difference. Of course, a year ago I’d have walked out of Beman’s then and there, if he’d said such things to me, though I suppose they were true then, more or less. It’s different now—a good deal depends on it, and I mean to convince the old gentleman and stay. I don’t want him to bring any tales—lies, especially—to uncle Robert, who got me in. But it’s a wonder we didn’t throttle each other in his office this morning. I take some credit to myself for having behaved so well. But I confess I should like to know who the ‘old and valued friend’ is. I’d like to be alone with him for a few moments.”
“Yes,” said Katharine, thoughtfully. “I wish I knew. Oh, Jack, what a shame!” she cried, with sudden vehemence. “When you’ve been trying so hard, and have succeeded so well! Oh—those are the sins people are burned everlastingly for—those mean, back-biting, busy-body sins, dressed up in virtue and friendship!”
“I hadn’t thought about the everlasting side of it. I should be quite satisfied to see the individual burn for three-quarters of an hour here.”
“Jack—” Katharine’s face changed suddenly, as though something that shocked her had been forced upon her mind.
“Yes—what is it? Have you guessed who it is? Do you know anything about it? Tell me!”
“I think I know,” she answered, in a low voice, as though horror-struck by the discovery. “I’m not sure—oh, Jack! It’s awful!”
“What’s awful? Who do you think it is?”
“No—I won’t tell you. I may be wrong, you know, and one has no right to condemn people on a guess. But if it were—” She stopped.