‘You are nervous, perhaps. Would you like me to do it for you?’
‘You–heaven forbid!’ he exclaimed passionately. ‘That would be to ruin–I mean, I must think about it again. I will decide to-morrow.’
‘As you are taking the matter into consideration,’ observed Somerville, with scarcely disguised insolence, ‘I would really strongly advise you to reflect whether it would not be in every way more advisable to tell the other lady that you wish to be free.’
‘Do you wish to insult me?’ asked Wellfield, pale with passion.
‘To insult you! I am simply trying to advise you for the best. Remember, you are now dependent upon this post of Mr. Bolton’s. If you, or anyone else, lets Miss Bolton know that you are engaged elsewhere, it might be bad for your prospects. Girls who have an idea–however mistaken–that their feelings have been trifled with, are apt to be vindictive.’
There was a palpable sneer beneath the even politeness of his tone. He had taken out the whip–the whip which Wellfield’s own pleasant sins had knotted into a cord, and which his own weakness and vacillation had put into the other’s hand. The very first stroke had drawn blood. With a chest heaving convulsively, and a glitter in his eyes of anything but agreeable import, Wellfield clenched his hands behind him, and said, composing himself with an effort rendered efficacious by dire necessity.
‘I see what you mean, but I must think about it.’
‘Yes, do,’ retorted his monitor, with a smile. ‘And I must return, or I shall receive a reprimand. Good-morning. I will stroll down to Monk’s Gate to-morrow evening. Shall I find you in?’
‘I expect so,’ said Wellfield, sullenly.
They parted. Somerville smiled as he took his way towards Brentwood.