Nor did it threaten his alone; there were uncomfortable rumours of disaster in the air, which, in course of time, came to Lady George's ears.
"I do hope Mr. Woodward is not mixed up in it," she said to Paul, as she sate working bilious-looking sunflowers on a faded bit of stuff for the Highland bazaar; "but he was a little distrait when he came down last Sunday, and he didn't eat any dinner to speak of--we dined with them, you remember."
"Perhaps I gave him too good a lunch at the club," replied her brother, jocosely; "besides, he wouldn't let a few losses spoil his appetite. He is well secured, and then he could always fall back on his share in the soap-boiling business."
"I was not thinking of him, Paul, I was thinking of you. You could not boil soap."
The fact was indubitable, and though her brother laughed, he felt vaguely that there were two sides to a bargain, and when his sister began on the subject again, he met her hints with a frown.
"I am perfectly aware," he said, "that Patagonians are dangerous, and Mr. Woodward knows it as well as I do."
"But he was nicked--that is how that city man I met at dinner last night put it--he was nicked in Atalantas also."
"If you had asked me, Blanche, instead of inquiring from strangers, as you seem to have done," interrupted her brother, with great heat, "I could have told you he was nicked, as you choose to call it, heavily--very heavily. He has been unlucky of late. He admits it."
"Good heavens, Paul! what are you going to do?"
"Nothing. He is quite capable of managing his own affairs."