Mr. Scunthorpe nodded judicial approval of this decision.
“Spend your life paying six hundred pounds to a man who is so wealthy that I daresay he regards it no more than you would a shilling?” cried Arabella. “Why, it is absurd!”
Bertram looked despairingly at his friend. Mr. Scunthorpe said painstakingly: “Nothing to do with it, ma’am. Debt of honour is a debt of honour. No getting away from that.”
“I cannot agree! I own, I do not like to do it, but I could do it, and I know he would never refuse me!”
Bertram grasped her wrist. “Listen, Bella! I daresay you don’t understand—in fact, I can see that you don’t!—but if you dared to do such a thing I swear you’d never see my face again! Besides, even if he did tear up my vowels I should still think myself under an obligation to redeem them! Next you will be suggesting that you should ask him to pay those damned tradesmen’s bills for me!”
She coloured guiltily, for some such idea had just crossed her mind. Suddenly, Mr. Scunthorpe, whose face a moment before had assumed a cataleptic expression, uttered three pregnant words. “Got a notion!”
The Tallants looked anxiously at him, Bertram with hope, his sister more than a little doubtfully.
“Know what they say?” Mr. Scunthorpe demanded. “Bank always wins!”
“I know that,” said Bertram bitterly. “If that’s all you have to say—”
“Wait!” said Mr. Scunthorpe. “Start one!” He saw blank bewilderment in the two faces confronting him, and added, with a touch of impatience: “Faro!”