“But I determined at the first chance I got to shake off that dust of the students’ quarter of Paris. I detested the untidiness of them all—the leanness and the grim jest of it—and the everlasting loans that were never paid.”
Anthony’s face, as he watched the impatient striding from under his brows, listening to the triumphant note of success, flickered with a grim smile. Paul Pangbutt had not been exactly notorious for the lending of loans. It came to him that his quest for help was not going to be an easy one.
The other suddenly came to a halt, and looked keenly at Anthony where he sat; remembering that this brooding man was the real subject of talk, he added:
“But—are things really as low with you as you say, Anthony?... You always made a jest of hard work.”
Anthony laughed sadly:
“And sometimes we got a good deal of hard work out of a jest; eh, Paul?” The smile died out of his eyes as soon as he had spoken: “No,” he added, “there’s no jest in it—unless the gods laugh at misfortune.... I am about at the end of things.”
Pangbutt assumed the fatherly note:
“Anthony,” said he—“I hope you will not mind my saying so, but you were always most reckless in your expenditure—or rather in your loans to all that army of hangers-on about you.”
It came to Anthony, as he stood in the withering blight of this man’s lack of sympathy, that if he were going to ask for help he must set aside all delicacy and put the situation before him bluntly. He made an unwilling start:
“Some years ago, Paul,” he said, “after you had made your mark in Paris, and were doing the round of the foreign courts, you no doubt heard that Caroline made rather a sensation with a book.”