‘I may as well say at once what I have come for. Could you lend me ten pounds for a month—in fact, until I get the money for my book?’
The secretary’s countenance fell, though not to that expression of utter coldness which would have come naturally under the circumstances to a great many vivacious men. He seemed genuinely embarrassed.
‘By Jove! I—confound it! To tell you the truth, I haven’t ten pounds to lend. Upon my word, I haven’t, Reardon! These infernal housekeeping expenses! I don’t mind telling you, old man, that Edith and I have been pushing the pace rather.’ He laughed, and thrust his hands down into his trousers-pockets. ‘We pay such a darned rent, you know—hundred and twenty-five. We’ve only just been saying we should have to draw it mild for the rest of the winter. But I’m infernally sorry; upon my word I am.’
‘And I am sorry to have annoyed you by the unseasonable request.’
‘Devilish seasonable, Reardon, I assure you!’ cried the secretary, and roared at his joke. It put him into a better temper than ever, and he said at length: ‘I suppose a fiver wouldn’t be much use?—For a month, you say?—I might manage a fiver, I think.’
‘It would be very useful. But on no account if——’
‘No, no; I could manage a fiver, for a month. Shall I give you a cheque?’
‘I’m ashamed——’
‘Not a bit of it! I’ll go and write the cheque.’
Reardon’s face was burning. Of the conversation that followed when Carter again presented himself he never recalled a word. The bit of paper was crushed together in his hand. Out in the street again, he all but threw it away, dreaming for the moment that it was a ‘bus ticket or a patent medicine bill.