“Mr. Maturin, please!” sighed, as though involuntarily, the voice from the shadows.
Mr. Maturin lit another cigarette and inhaled it. “Wasn’t Joan,” he asked, “at all swayed by your arguments against me? They must have been cogent enough, I fancy.”
“Like the boy,” Sir Guy said with sudden gentleness, “she defended you. You have some magic for youth, it seems. They admit your faults, but do not hold them against your character. But I have observed that it takes grown-up people to condemn caddishness. Children will overlook it.”
“True,” said Mr. Maturin. “You see, Sir Guy, children like people for what they are, not for what they do.” He turned to the dim lady. “I fancy,” he said, “that you have both got hold of the wrong end of the stick. I mean, don’t you see, that it’s not really much use persuading me to give Joan up. I mean, it wouldn’t be much use if I did.”
“How, sir!”
“Mr. Maturin, I don’t quite understand.”
“Well, let’s face it, we must persuade her to give me up. Otherwise,” said Mr. Maturin with an air of conviction, “if I were to break my promise to her she would guess that it was at your persuasion—you might indeed insinuate that you had paid me off, but she wouldn’t believe it—and you would be faced for the rest of your days by an accusing girl. And that would be beastly for you.”
There was a heavy silence: which fled sharply before a rattle when old Sir Guy, with a gesture of distaste, flung his paper-knife on to the table.
“Do I understand you to be caring for my old age, Mr. Maturin?”
“Neither your youth nor your old age are of any interest for me, sir. I am merely suggesting that if I were to give up Joan without her consent she would make a martyr of herself. Her very name will encourage the idea. Mrs. de Gramercy, I am sure you understand me.”