Thomas paused. Dropping his voice, he resumed in a lower tone, only just removed from a whisper:
“Have you paper flying about the discount markets?”
George Godolphin’s fair face grew scarlet. Was it with conscious emotion?—or with virtuous indignation? Thomas assumed it to be the latter. How could he give it an opposite meaning from the indignant words which accompanied it. A burst of indignation which Thomas stopped.
“Stay, George. There is no necessity to put yourself out. I never supposed it to be anything but false when a rumour of it reached my ear. Only tell me the truth quietly.”
Possibly George would have been glad to tell the truth, and get so much of the burden off his mind. But he did not dare. He might have shrunk from the terrible confession at any time to his kind, his good, his upright brother: but things had become too bad to be told to him now. If the exposé did come, why, it must, and there would be no help for it: tell him voluntarily he could not. By some giant strokes of luck and policy, it might yet be averted: how necessary, then, to keep it from Thomas Godolphin!
“The truth is,” said George, “that I don’t know what you mean. To what rumour are you alluding?”
“It has been said that you have a good deal of paper in the market. The report was spoken, and it reached my ears.”
“It’s not true. It’s all an invention,” cried George vehemently. “Should I be such a fool? There are some people who live, it’s my belief, by trying to work ill to others. Mr. Hastings was with me this morning. He had heard a rumour that something was wrong with the Bank.”
“With the Bank! In what way?”
“Oh, of course, people must have gathered a version of the loss here, and put their own charitable constructions upon it,” replied George, returning to his usual careless mode of speech. “The only thing to do is, to laugh at them.”