“Anything that those people expect of you.”
“Those people?” Hyacinth repeated.
“Ah, don’t torment me with pretending not to understand!” the old man begged. “You know the people I mean. I can’t call them by their names, because I don’t know them. But you do, and they know you.”
Hyacinth had no desire to torment Mr Vetch, but he was capable of reflecting that to enter into his thought too easily would be tantamount to betraying himself. “I suppose I know the people you have in mind,” he said, in a moment; “but I’m afraid I don’t grasp the idea of the promise.”
“Don’t they want to make use of you?”
“I see what you mean,” said Hyacinth. “You think they want me to touch off some train for them. Well, if that’s what troubles you, you may sleep sound. I shall never do any of their work.”
A radiant light came into the fiddler’s face, and he stared, as if this assurance were too fair for nature. “Do you take your oath on that? Never anything, anything, anything?”
“Never anything at all.”
“Will you swear it to me by the memory of that good woman of whom we have been speaking and whom we both loved?”
“My dear old Pinnie’s memory? Willingly.”