"By God, I won't have it!" he protested passionately. "I'll not take such a sum of money from you."
Desmond's smile showed both approval and amusement.
"No call for violence, Boy! I told you my mind was made up; and it's folly wasting powder and shot against a stone wall."
"Look here, though—can you manage it—easily?"
"Yes, I can manage it." And in the rush of relief Harry failed to note the significant omission of the adverb. "But it's to be a square bargain between us. No more shroffs; no more betting, or I come down on you like a ton of coals for my eight hundred. Stick to whist and polo in playtime. Polish up your Pushtoo, and get into closer touch with your Pathans. Start Persian with me, if you like, and replace Roland with the money you get for passing. But first of all write to your mother, and tell her the chief part of the truth. Not my share in it, please. That remains between ourselves and—my wife. She'll understand, never fear. Now—shake hands on that, and stick to it, will you?"
"Desmond, you are a trump!"
"No need for compliments between you and me, Harry. Shut up and get on with your letter."
Then, because his mind was freed from anxiety, he realised that the Boy's hand felt like hot parchment, and that his eyes were unusually bright.
"You've got fever on you," he said brusquely. "Feel bad?"
"Pretty average. My head's been going like an engine these two days. Couldn't eat anything yesterday or get a wink of sleep last night. That's what set my conscience stirring perhaps."