"But I didn't, I tell you!" cried the exasperated Gore.
"No. We know that. But Sir Simon, judging from his letter, thinks so."
"He has no right to do that. My conduct never gave him any reason to think I would sink so low."
"My dear chap," said Conniston, with the air of a Socrates, "when anyone has his monkey up, he will believe anything."
"Conniston is quite right," said the lawyer, "though he expresses himself with his usual elegance. Sir Simon, with Beryl at his elbow, is inclined to believe the worst of you, Bernard, and probably thinks you have deteriorated sufficiently to permit your making use of even so humble an instrument as a housemaid."
"Bah!" said Gore, in a rage. "What right has he to—"
"Don't be so furious, my dear man. I am advising you for your own good, and not charging seven-and-six either."
This made Bernard laugh. "But it does make a fellow furious to hear his nearest—I won't say dearest—think so badly of one."
"One's relatives always think the worst," said Conniston, oracularly. "Miss Plantagenet thinks so badly of me that I'll never see that five thousand a year. Miss Malleson will have it, and you, Bernard, will live on it. Pax! Pax!" for Bernard gave him a punch on the shoulder.
"Dick, you're a silly ass! Go on, Durham."