"Why, my dear man, where HAVE you lived! …"
Some months after I had ridden Jack Madden and my own horses over high Leicestershire, my friend came to see me and asked me to swear on my Bible oath that I would not give him away over a secret which he intended to tell me.
After I had taken my solemn oath he said: "Your friend Peter Flower in India was going to be put in the bankruptcy court and turned out of every club in London; so I went to Sam Lewis and paid his debt, but I don't want him to know about it and he never need, unless you tell him."
MARGOT: "What does he owe? And whom does he owe it to?"
MY FRIEND: "He owes ten thousand pounds, but I'm not at liberty to tell you who it's to; he is a friend of mine and a very good fellow. I can assure you that he has waited longer than most people would for Flower to pay him and I think he's done the right thing."
MARGOT: "Is Peter Flower a friend of yours?"
MY FRIEND: "I don't know him by sight and have never spoken to him in my life, but he's the man you're in love with and that is enough for me."
. . . . . . .
When the year was up and Peter—for all I knew—was still in India, I had made up my mind that, come what might, I would never, under any circumstances, renew my relations with him.
That winter I was staying with the Manners, as usual, and finding myself late for a near meet cut across country. Larking is always a stupid thing to do; horses that have never put a foot wrong generally refuse the smallest fence and rather than upset them at the beginning of the day you end by going through the gate, which you had better have done at first.