Julian faced round suddenly and confronted him, his eyes blazing, every feature working.
“What the devil is the good of saying things like that?” he demanded. “Can’t you understand that I have reckoned on it, as you call it? Can’t you understand that it was all or nothing with me, and I am just done? Can’t you understand——”
He broke off suddenly, and, turning away with a heavy groan, flung himself into a chair, and let his face fall forward on the table. For all that he was face to face with at that moment he could have found no words. The remorse, the sense of failure and helplessness, the despair which seemed to be tearing his heart to pieces, were one intolerable anguish.
Ramsay followed him with his eyes, and then crossed the room quietly, and stood beside his bowed figure, which was shaken now and again from head to foot.
“Is it so bad as this, boy?” he said quietly. Then, as there came no answer, he went on meditatively: “Ten thousand pounds! Ten thousand isn’t so much to lose. Counters in the game, that’s all.”
He paused, and after a moment Julian lifted his face, haggard and drawn.
“It’s the stake you must look to,” he said. “My stake was heavy, Ramsay. Oh, you’re right enough. Ten thousand pounds isn’t much. I borrowed a thousand yesterday—raised it on a reversion—to get hold of some shares Loring wanted to sell. That wasn’t much either, of course.”
He had spoken in a dreary, monotonous voice, which was inexpressibly hopeless. And Ramsay’s eyes were fixed keenly on him as their owner said drily:
“You bought a thousand pounds’ worth of Loring’s shares yesterday? Did you know that he was selling out all his interest in the Welcome?”