Aureole shook her head. “It would be no good slinging everyone out; there are dozens more coming in. And they’d all bring lawsuits and breach-of-promise acts against me, because I did let them the rooms.”
“Then I’ll hunt round for a competent manageress, instal her with a salary, and you can leave whenever you like.”
“Do you think I’d touch your money?” she flashed at him proudly.
“But——”
“Besides, I won’t have a horrid prying person here, who will see what a mess everything is in; see that I’ve failed....”
Stuart walked about the empty breakfast-room, hands in his pockets, pondering deeply. Conscience had driven him to reconnoitre, and now the same conscience informed him very clearly that he could not allow his friend’s wife to continue her present burlesque of management, unprotected, accumulating enormous debts. One owed something to one’s pals; Stuart hid a rather special affection for the imperturbable Nigger Strachey. But if Aureole refused to smash the establishment, and refused to have a manageress,—well then, what was he to do?
—“Stay here, and control matters yourself,” suggested Aureole, divining and answering his thoughts. With a mischievous glint beneath her heavy eyelids, she added, “I don’t mind you knowing the worst; after all—you’re responsible!”
And as it really seemed the only solution to the problem, Stuart consented.
Speculation ran riot as to the identity of the mysterious stranger. Later in the day, Aureole introduced him as: “My husband’s friend” without further explanation. The husband’s friend became a scowling and unpopular permanency. He marvelled how he came thus to be saddled with the white elephant of Aureole’s folly; nevertheless, there seemed no way of shaking off the boarding establishment till the 31st of October, or till Oliver’s return. He at once wrote to Oliver, care of the latter’s bank, trusting that there the address would have been forwarded.