“If,” continued Jack, “I could. But I am more or less bound to go on now. Such chances as this do not turn up every day; I cannot afford to let it go by. Truth is, I told—some one who shall be nameless—that I would make money to keep her in that state of life wherein her godfathers, etc., have placed her; and make that money I must.”
“That is about my position too,” said Guy Oscard, somewhat indistinctly, owing to the fact that he habitually smoked a thick-stemmed pipe.
“Is it? I'm glad of that. It gives us something in common to work for.”
“Yes.” Guy paused, and made a huge effort, finally conquering that taciturnity which was almost an affliction to him. “The reason I gave the other night to you and that chap Durnovo was honest enough, but I have another. I want to lie low for a few months, but I also want to make money. I'm as good as engaged to be married, and I find that I am not so well off as I thought I was. People told me that I should have three thousand a year when the governor died, but I find that people know less of my affairs than I thought.”
“They invariably do,” put in Jack encouragingly.
“It is barely two thousand, and—and she has been brought up to something better than that.”
“Um! they mostly are. Mine has been brought up to something better than that too. That is the worst of it.”
Jack Meredith leant back in his folding chair, and gazed practically up into the heavens.
“Of course,” Guy went on, doggedly expansive now that he had once plunged, “two thousand a year sounds pretty good, and it is not bad to start upon. But there is no chance of its increasing; in fact, the lawyer fellows say it may diminish. I know of no other way to make money—had no sort of training for it. I'm not of a commercial turn of mind. Fellows go into the City and brew beer or float companies, whatever that may be.”
“It means they sink other people's funds,” explained Jack.