David by this time has grown scarlet with embarrassment and confusion. But he endeavoured to meet the situation.
"My character has changed during the last five years, and especially so since I came back from South Africa. But I am quite sure it was not due to any operation, on the throat or anywhere else. I really don't know why I told you that silly falsehood in the train—about necrosis of the jaw. The fact is that when I was in hospital—at—Colesberg, a friend of mine in the same ward used—to chaff me—and say I was going to have necrosis. I had got knocked over one day—by—the—wind of a shell and thought I was done for, but it really was next to nothing. P'raps I had a dose of fever on top. At any rate they kept me in hospital, and one morning the doctors disappeared and the Boers marched in and when I got well enough I managed to escape and get away to—er—Cape Town and so returned—with some money—my friend Frank Gardner lent me." (At this stage the sick-at-heart Vivie was saying to herself, "What an account I'm laying up for Frank to honour when he comes back—if he does come back.") "I don't know why I tell you all this, except that I ought never to have misled you at the start. But if you are a kind and good man"—David's voice broke here—"You will forget all about it and not upset my father, I can assure you I haven't done anything really wrong. I haven't deserted—some day—perhaps—I can tell you all about it. But at present all that South African episode is just a horrid dream—I was more sinned against than sinning" (tears were rather in the voice at this stage). "I want to forget all about it—and settle down and vex my father no more. I want to read for the Bar—a soldier's life is the very opposite to what I should choose if I were a free agent. But you will trust me, won't you? You will believe me when I say I've done nothing wrong, nothing that you, if you knew all the facts, would call wrong...?"
Speech here trailed off into emotion. Despite the severest self-restraint the bosom rose and fell. A few tears trickled down the smooth cheeks—it was an ingratiating boy on the verge of manhood that Rossiter saw before him. He hastened to say:
"My dear chap! Don't say another word, unless you like to blackguard me for my impertinence in putting these questions. I quite understand. We'll consider the whole thing erased from our memories. Go on studying for the Bar with all your might, if you must take up so barren a profession and won't become my pupil in biology—Great openings, I can tell you, coming now in that direction." (A pause.)
"But if it's of any interest to you, just come here as often as you like in your spare time—either to tea with Mrs. Rossiter or to see me at work on my experiments. I've taken a great liking to you, if you'll allow me to say so. I think there's good stuff in you. A young man reading for the Bar in London is none the worse for a few friends. He must often feel pretty lonely on a Sunday, for example. And he may also—now I'm going to be impertinent and paternal again—he may also pick up undesirable acquaintances, male—and female. Don't you get feeling lonely, with your home far away in Wales. Consider yourself free of this place at any rate, and my wife and I can introduce you to some other people you might like to know. I might introduce you to Mark Stansfield the Q.C. Do you know any one in London, by the bye?"
"Oh yes," said David, smiling with all but one tear dried on a still coloured cheek. "I know Honoria Fraser—I know Mr. Praed the architect—"
"The A.R.A.? Of course; you or your father said you had been his pupil. H'm. Praed. Yes, I visualize him. Rather a dilettante—whimsical—I didn't like what I heard of him at one time. However it's no affair of mine. And Honoria Fraser! She's simply one of the best women I know. It's curious she wasn't here—At least I didn't see her—this afternoon. She's a friend of my wife's. I knew her when she was at Newnham. She had a great friend—what was it? Violet? No, Vera? Vivien—yes that was it, Vivien Warren. Of course! Why that business she started for women in the City somewhere is called Fraser and Warren. She was always wanting to bring this Vivien Warren here. Said she had such a pretty colouring. I own I rather like to see a pretty woman. But she didn't come" (pulls at his pipe and thrusts another cigarette on David). "Went abroad. Seemed rather morose. Some one who came with Honoria said she had a bad mother, and Honoria very rightly shut him up. By the bye, where and how did you come to meet Honoria first?"
(David was on the point of saying—he was so unstrung—"Why we were at Newnham together." Then resolved to tell another whopper—Indeed I am told there is a fascination in certain circumstances about lying—and replied): "Vivien Warren was my cousin. She was a Vavasour on her mother's side—from South Wales—and my mother was a Vavasour too—" And as the disguised Vivie said this, some inkling came into her mind that there was a real relationship between Catharine Warren née Vavasour and the Mary Vavasour who was David's mother. A spasm of joy flashed through her at the possibility of her story being in some slight degree true.
"I see," said Rossiter, satisfied, and feeling now that the interview had lasted long enough and that there would be just time to glance at his assistant's afternoon work before he dressed for dinner....
"Well, old chap. Good-bye for the present. Come often and see us and look upon me—I must be fifteen years older than you are—What, twenty-four? Impossible! You don't look a day older than twenty—in fact, if you hadn't told me you'd been in South Africa—However as I was saying, look on me as in loco parentis while you are in London. I'll show you the way out into the hall. Shall they call you a cab? No? You're quite right. It's a splendid night for January. Where do you live? Here, write it down in my address book.... '7 Fig Tree Court, Temple'—What a jolly address! Are there fig trees in the Temple ... still? P'raps descended from cuttings or layers the poor Templars brought from the Holy Land."