Mr. Rowlandson held his wine-glass to the light again, and looked through it with half-closed eyes.
"Fifty pounds," he quietly repeated, "and took her note, with interest at five per cent. I could have made it six as well as not, she wanted the money so badly."
Sir Peter turned his back on the bookseller the pen busied itself with the check. A moment later it was offered to him.
"Thank you, Sir Peter. My interest in this transaction is not for sale." Mr. Rowlandson spoke in a low tone, firmly.
"But I say my niece shall not be indebted to you! Not one penny!"
Sir Peter's fist came down on one of the parcels lying on the table. There was a crash of broken glass. Mr. Rowlandson's eyes twinkled merrily.
"That is the Charterhouse print," said he. "My customer will be disappointed. It was promised for this evening."
The trivial incident cooled Sir Peter's wrath.
"I insist on your taking the check, Rowlandson" he said sternly. "You will understand it is an impossible situation. My niece is not under the necessity of seeking aid from strangers. She knows that all I have is hers. That I would——" He stopped abruptly.
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Rowlandson, leaning forward. "Let us talk about her—and her young poet. What an upstanding, fine, frank lad he appears to be. Do you think he has great talent?"