It was thus Miles Ingestre found her an hour later. Knowing that Arnim was out, he had donned a dressing-gown and now stood staring blankly at his sister, his hair disordered, his yellow face a shade yellower from the last day's dissipation.
"Why, Nora!" he said sleepily. "What's the matter, old girl?"
She looked up. His voice gave her back the power at least to act.
"Rittmeister Bauer has been here," she said. "He gave me this. Is it true?"
He took the paper which she held towards him and studied it, rocking on his heels the while in an uneasy silence.
"Yes, it seems true enough. What the devil did he give it you for?"
"He says the creditors are likely to press payment—and—and—Wolff will be held responsible. Oh, Miles, what have you done? What have you done?"
The last words broke from her like a cry of despair. They seemed to penetrate the thickness of Miles's phlegm, for he laid his hand on her shoulder, his lips twitching with a maudlin self-pity.
"It wasn't my fault, Nora. I didn't know what they were leading me into. If Wolff had only helped me a bit—if he hadn't been such a stuck-up prig, so beastly self-righteous. There, you needn't break out! I can't help it—it's the truth; it's not all my fault." He ran his shaky hand through his hair. "And, after all, there isn't so much to make a fuss about. Everybody in our set does that sort of thing, and I dare say Bauer will tide me over the worst. He's a decent fellow, and beastly rich. Look here, Nora"—his shifty eyes took an expression of stupid cunning—"if you asked him—you know he's a friend of yours—I'll be bound he'd help me."
Nora turned and looked at him. In that moment he seemed to her a complete stranger. Then she gently loosened herself from his hand. She did not answer. It was too useless. She rose and left him standing there, the silly smile still playing about his lips.