“Assuredly.”
“Then can I do anything for you? A few thousands on your simple note of hand? Only say the word. No dealing—no interest. Just a simple loan. How much?”
“My dear Elbraham,” said Lord Henry, “you are very kind; but I have a handsome balance at my bank. I am a man of very simple tastes, and I have never lived half up to my income.”
“Then you must be worth a pot,” exclaimed Elbraham. “I mean, you are really rich.”
“Well, I suppose I am,” said Lord Henry, smiling; “but I care very little for money, I assure you.”
“That’ll do,” exclaimed Elbraham, crushing the other’s hand once more. “Good-bye. Monday.”
By this time they had reached the spot where their carriages were waiting—Elbraham’s a phaeton, with a magnificent pair of bays, whose sides were flecked with the foam they had formed in champing their bits; Lord Henry’s a neat little brougham drawn by a handsome roan.
Then there was a wave of the hand, and Elbraham took his whip, the bays starting off at a rapid trot, while, having let himself into his brougham, Lord Henry gave the word “Home,” and leaned back with the tears in his eyes to think how soon he was finding consolation for the coldness with which he had been treated by Gertrude Millet. Then he felt slightly uneasy, for though he had never spoken to Lady Millet, his visits had been suggestive, and he could not help asking himself what her ladyship would say.
But that soon passed off, as he began to glide into a delightful day-dream about beautiful Marie, and to think how strange it was that, at his age, he should have fallen fairly and honestly in love with an innocent, heart-whole, unspoiled girl.
“Yes, so different to Gertrude Millet,” he said to himself. “She loved that young Huish, I am sure.”