“I have not the least desire to discuss it,” said Rowland. “I simply protest.”
Roderick meditated a moment. “I have never yet thought twice of accepting a favor of you,” he said at last; “but this one sticks in my throat.”
“It is not a favor; I lend you the money only under compulsion.”
“Well, then, I will take it only under compulsion!” Roderick exclaimed. And he sprang up abruptly and marched away.
His words were ambiguous; Rowland lay on the grass, wondering what they meant. Half an hour had not elapsed before Roderick reappeared, heated with rapid walking, and wiping his forehead. He flung himself down and looked at his friend with an eye which expressed something purer than bravado and yet baser than conviction.
“I have done my best!” he said. “My mother is out of money; she is expecting next week some circular notes from London. She had only ten francs in her pocket. Mary Garland gave me every sou she possessed in the world. It makes exactly thirty-four francs. That ‘s not enough.”
“You asked Miss Garland?” cried Rowland.
“I asked her.”
“And told her your purpose?”
“I named no names. But she knew!”