"Oh, that's all right!" he said quickly. "Not another word about that, James—not another syllable."
But Milbanke continued to finger the cheque.
"Denis," he began again, a shade of nervousness audible in his voice, "I am uncertain how to say what I want to say. I am extremely anxious not to offend you, and yet I feel—I fear that you may take offence."
Before replying, Asshlin drained the cup of strong tea that stood beside his plate; then he glanced again at his companion.
"What in thunder are you driving at?" he asked good-humouredly.
Milbanke looked down.
"That's what I want to explain," he answered without raising his head. "And you must not allow it to offend you. I want you, for the sake of old friendship, to let me tear this cheque up. I was excited last night; I infringed on one of my set rules—that of never playing cards for high stakes. It is for my own sake that I ask permission to do this. It—it will put me right with myself."
He laughed deprecatingly.
For a second there was no indication that his laboured explanation had been even heard; then, with alarming suddenness, Asshlin brought his hand down upon the table, ripping out an oath.
"And where the devil do I come in?" he demanded. "Is it because you see the place going to rack and ruin that you think you can insult me in my own house? I'd have you to know that when an Asshlin needs charity, he will ask for it." In the spasm of rage that had attacked him, his eyes blazed and the veins in his forehead swelled. Then, suddenly catching a glimpse of the consternation on his guest's face, he controlled himself by an effort, and with a loud laugh pushed back his chair and rose. "Forgive me, James!" he said roughly. "You don't understand—you never did understand. It's the cursed pride of a cursed country. The less we have to be proud of, the more damned proud we are. We have a sense of humour for everything in creation except ourselves." Again he laughed harshly; then again his mood changed. "James," he said seriously, "put that cheque in your pocket, and if you value my friendship, never mention it again. We may be a bad lot; we may be all Clo says of us—fools, rakes, spendthrifts; but no Asshlin ever shirked his debts of honour." The words were bombastic, the sentiment false, but the natural dignity and distinction of the man—dissipated failure though he might be—were unmistakable, as he stood with high head and erect figure.