When they had reached the front walk and were about to climb the immaculate steps, St. George, still determined to divert the boy's thoughts from his own financial straits, said with a laugh:
“Todd told you, of course, about your father paying me a visit this morning, did he not?”
“Oh, yes!—a most extraordinary account. You must have enjoyed it,” replied Harry, trying to fall into his uncle's mood, his heart growing heavier every moment. “What did he want?”
One of St. George's heat-lightning smiles played over his face: “He wanted two things. He first wanted you, and then he wanted a receipt for a month's board—YOUR board, remember! He went away without either.”
A new perspective suddenly opened up in Harry's mind; one that had a gleam of sunshine athwart it.
“But, Uncle George!” he burst out—“don't forget that my father owes you all the money you paid for me! That, of course, will eventually come back to you.” This came in a tone of great relief, as if the money was already in his hand.
St. George's face hardened: “None of it will come back to me,” he rejoined in a positive tone. “He doesn't owe me one single penny and he never will. That money he owes to you. Whatever you may happen to owe me can wait until you are able to pay it. And now while I am talking about it, there is another thing your father owes you, and that is an humble apology, and that he will pay one of these days in tears and agony. You are neither a beggar nor a cringing dog, and you never will be so long as I can help it!” He stopped, rested his hand on the boy's shoulder, and with a quiver in his voice added:
“Your hand, my son. Short commons after this, may be, but we will make the fight together.”
When the two passed through the front door and stepped into the dining-room they found it filled with gentlemen—friends who had heard of the crash and who had come either to extend their sympathy or offer their bank accounts. They had heard of the catastrophe at the club and had instantly left their seats and walked across the park in a body.
To one and all St. George gave a warm pressure of the hand and a bright smile. Had he been the master of ceremonies at a state reception he could not have been more self-possessed or more gallant; his troubles were for himself, never for his guests.