“‘Do’ anything——?”
“Anything those people expect of you.”
“Those people?” Hyacinth repeated.
“Ah don’t torment me—worried as I already am—with pretending not to understand!” the old man wailed. “You know the people I mean. I can’t call them by their names, because I don’t know their names. But you do, and they know you.”
Hyacinth had no desire to torment him, 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’ve in mind,” he said in a moment; “but I’m afraid I don’t grasp the need of such solemnities.”
“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; he stared as if this assurance were too fair for nature. “Do you take your oath to 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’ve been speaking and whom we both loved?”