"Oh—er—not a bit, of course," Rathbone answered with manifest uneasiness. "But I didn't know that anything had got about. I didn't know that you knew. Oh, confound it," he concluded, "I don't want to talk about my own affairs; I——Hang it all, Charliewood, tell me straight out what you mean."
"I repeat," Charliewood answered, "that I haven't known you very long, and therefore I am very chary of in any way infringing the natural reticence that should be between men in our position. Still, you know who I am; everybody knows all about me, and I should like you to believe that I am really a friend."
As he said this, though his face was full of frankness and kindliness once more, Charliewood felt that sick loathing of himself he had experienced just before his guest had arrived. There was a throbbing at his temples, his throat felt as if it were packed with warm flour. He hurriedly gulped down some champagne and went on. "Everybody knows by this time," he said in a quiet voice, "that—that—well, old chap, that there has been a sort of set to partners and a change in certain quarters."
At that moment William appeared with the fish, Charliewood having rung for him at the psychological moment, knowing that the little interlude would give his guest time to collect his thoughts.
When the man had once more left the room, Rathbone, who had been biting his lips in perplexity and drumming upon the table with his fingers, bent towards his host.
"I see you know all about it," he said; "and, upon my word, if you'd let me, I should like to talk things over with you from one point of view."
"My dear Rathbone," Charliewood replied, "say nothing whatever to me unless you like, but understand that what you did say would be said in absolute confidence, and that if the experience of a man older in social life, and accustomed to all its vagaries, can help you, I give it to you with all my heart."
"Now I call that very good of you, Charliewood," the young man answered. "I'll tell you straight out, what you probably already know, and I'll ask you for a hint as to what I ought to do. Miss Poole"—he mentioned the name with obvious reluctance—"has found that she made an—er, well, a sort of mistake in her affections. I have no doubt it's all over London that she's written to Sir William Gouldesbrough telling him so."
"Throwing him over, in fact," Charliewood said.
"If you like to put it so," the other answered, "and of course that is just what it amounts to."