“Yes,” said Celia, with a look of confidence, “I think you will. But,” and a flicker of colour crept into her thin face—“I can’t take any more money until it’s done.”
Vane, failing in another attempt to shake her resolution, dropped the subject, and soon afterwards he and Carroll took their departure. They were sitting in their hotel, waiting for dinner, when Carroll, who lay in a luxurious chair, looked up lazily.
“What are you thinking about so hard?” he inquired.
Vane glanced meaningly round the elaborately furnished room. “There’s a contrast between all this and that rotten shack. Did you notice that Celia never stopped sewing while we were in?”
“I did,” said Carroll. “I suppose you’re going to propound another conundrum of a kind I’ve heard before—why you should have so many things you don’t particularly need while Miss Hartley must go on sewing, when she’s hardly able for it, in her most unpleasant shack? I don’t know if the fact that you found a mine answers the question; but if it doesn’t the thing’s beyond your philosophy.”
“Come off,” Vane bade him with signs of impatience. “Your moralising gets on one’s nerves. Anyhow, I straightened out one difficulty—I found the rent man, who’d been round worrying her, and got rid of him.”
Carroll groaned in mock dismay, which covered some genuine annoyance with himself.
“What’s the matter?” Vane inquired. “Do you want a drink?”
“I’ll get over it,” Carroll informed him. “It isn’t the first time I’ve suffered from the same complaint. But I’d like to point out that your chivalrous impulses may be the ruin of you some day. Why didn’t you let Drayton settle with the man? You gave him a cheque, I suppose?”
“I did; I’d only a few loose dollars on me. Now I see what you’re driving at, and I want to say that any little reputation I possess can pretty well take care of itself.”