But Roderick, most characteristically, did not in the least resent his friend’s assertion; he sent him, on the contrary, one of those large, clear looks of his, which seemed to express a stoical pleasure in Rowland’s frankness, and which set his companion, then and there, wondering again, as he had so often done before, at the extraordinary contradictions of his temperament. “My dear mother,” Roderick said, “if you had had eyes that were not blinded by this sad maternal vanity, you would have seen all this for yourself; you would have seen that I ‘m anything but prosperous.”
“Is it anything about money?” cried Mrs. Hudson. “Oh, do write to Mr. Striker!”
“Money?” said Roderick. “I have n’t a cent of money; I ‘m bankrupt!”
“Oh, Mr. Mallet, how could you let him?” asked Mrs. Hudson, terribly.
“Everything I have is at his service,” said Rowland, feeling ill.
“Of course Mr. Mallet will help you, my son!” cried the poor lady, eagerly.
“Oh, leave Mr. Mallet alone!” said Roderick. “I have squeezed him dry; it ‘s not my fault, at least, if I have n’t!”
“Roderick, what have you done with all your money?” his mother demanded.
“Thrown it away! It was no such great amount. I have done nothing this winter.”
“You have done nothing?”