It was quite out of the usual order for these books to come under the inspection (unless at stated times) of Mr. Godolphin. The very asking for them implied a doubt on George—at least, it sounded so to that gentleman’s all-conscious ears. He pointed out the books to Isaac in silence, with the end of his pen.
Isaac Hastings carried them to Mr. Godolphin, and left them with him. Mr. Godolphin turned them rapidly over and over: they appeared, so far as he could see at a cursory glance, to be all right; the balance on the credit side weighty, the available funds next door to inexhaustible, the Bank altogether flourishing. Thomas took greater shame to himself for having doubted his brother. While thus engaged, an observation suddenly struck him—that all the entries were in George’s handwriting. A few minutes later, George came into the room.
“George,” he exclaimed, “how industrious you have become!”
“Industrious!” repeated George, looking round for an explanation.
“All these entries are yours. Formerly you would not have done as much in a year.”
George laughed. “I used to be incorrigibly idle. It was well to turn over a new leaf.”
He—George—was going out of the room again, but his brother stopped him. “Stay here, George. I want you.”
Mr. Godolphin pointed to a chair as he spoke, and George sat down. George, who seemed rather inclined to have the fidgets, took out his penknife and began cutting at an offending nail.
“Are you in any embarrassment, George?”
“In embarrassment? I! Oh dear, no.”