“Then I have grown virtuous—I have come to borrow.... Nay, man—to ask you to pay back.... Anthony Baddlesmere—did he want help?”
“He did not ask for help,” said the painter lamely.
The eyes of the great tragic man before him saw into the nakedness of his very conceit; and Paul Pangbutt realized that his chief weapon, his cold pride of egoism, was useless against the truth-seeking eyes of Eustace Lovegood—was without awe to him. He recoiled under the calm eyes of this big gentle fellow as he spoke:
“Paul—you never could see the soul in a man.... You could only value what part of him could be bought in shops, or whittled into shapes in the academies. The man who was here to-night is almost destitute. Anthony and Caroline Baddlesmere—who were the Bountifuls to all of us in Paris—destitute!”
“I am not the cause of it,” Pangbutt answered sullenly.
An ugly frown came over the big man’s eyes:
“No, but he helped you to this.” He swept his hand round the room slowly. “He gave you a footing at the Embassy in Paris.... I need not go into details.... The rest is here. And you could let him leave your house ashamed to ask for help!”
Pangbutt made an effort to take the domineering careless attitude; but he realized that his play-acting was worse than lost on this man’s grim regard.
“I did not grasp that it was so serious, Lovegood.... I will—drop in one day—and—see if something cannot be done——”
He saw the smile of contempt move the pale heavy features of Eustace Lovegood as he shrugged his huge shoulders, and, with an exhaustive snort of disgust, strode slowly out of the room.