“Mr Ruthven has returned, and I have seen him, but I have not spoken with him. It was not his will and pleasure to say anything to-night about that which has been keeping me in such miserable suspense. He was engaged, forsooth, when a moment would have settled it. Well, it does not matter. I shall take the decision into my own hands.”
“What do you mean, Harry?”
“I mean, I shall give up my situation if he does not send me West—if he hesitates a moment about sending me, I shall leave his employment.”
“But why, Harry?”
“Because—because I am determined. Ruthven does not think me fit to be entrusted with the management of his affairs, I suppose.”
“Harry,” said his sister, gravely, “is it surprising if he does not?”
“Well, if I am not to be trusted there, neither am I to be trusted here, and I leave. Graeme, you don’t know what you are talking about. It is quite absurd to suppose that what happened that night would make any difference to Allan Ruthven. You think him a saint, but trust me, he knows by experience how to make allowance for that sort of thing. If he has nothing worse than that against any one in his employment, he may think himself fortunate.”
“Then, why do you say he does not trust you?”
“I shall call it sufficient evidence that he does not, if he draws back in this. Not that I care much. I would rather be in the employment of some one else. I shall not stay here.”
“Harry,” said Graeme, coming quite close to the sofa on which he had thrown himself, “what has happened between you and Allan Ruthven.”