“Well,” said Mrs. Acton, “it is, perhaps, to my credit that I have done one now. Anyway, I like the man.”
Acton nodded. “Oh, yes;” he agreed, “that’s quite comprehensible. There’s a good deal of tone about him, but except with women that’s not a thing that counts in this country. It’s the bulldog grip and grit that goes farthest here––anyway, when a man has no money behind him.”
“You wouldn’t consider Nasmyth a weak man?”
“Not in one way. When he’s right up against it, he’ll stiffen himself and fight, but when the strain slackens a little his kind are apt to let go too easily.”
This, as a matter of fact, was more or less correct, but Mrs. Acton’s intention was not to discuss Nasmyth’s character, and she smiled at her husband.
“Well,” she announced; “I expect you to take a hand in the thing.”
Acton’s gesture was expressive of resignation. “I guessed it. However, it seems to me that young man has quite enough friends to give him a shove here and there already. To begin with, there’s Wisbech.”
“What would Wisbech do?”
“Not much.” And Acton smiled understandingly. “He means to let his nephew feel his own feet. He’s a sensible man. Then there’s that man Gordon from the Bush, and it seems I’m to do my share, too. Guess if I was Nasmyth, I’d say ‘thank you,’ and go right ahead without listening to one among the crowd of us.”