“I don’t think you need ask me that,” he said, rather sharply, as he opened a drawer in his father’s writing-table, and locked up the paper containing Herr Schwarz’s offer.
Sir Arthur looked at him wistfully.
“You’ve been a brick, Duggy—since I told you. I don’t know that I had any right to count upon it.”
“What else could I do?” said Douglas, trying to laugh, but conscious—resenting it—of a swelling in the throat.
“You could have given a good many more twists to the screw—if you’d been a different sort,” said his father slowly. “And you’re a tough customer, Duggy, to some people. But to me”—He paused, beginning again in another tone—
“Duggy, don’t be offended with me—but did you ever want to marry Lady Constance Bledlow? You wrote to me about her at Christmas.”
Douglas gave a rather excited laugh.
“It’s rather late in the day to ask me that question.”
His father eyed him.
“You mean she refused you?”