“I— In truth—I—” haltingly began Sir Frederick, his face losing colour as he spoke. “I have had the devil’s turn of luck of late, and—and I am not in a position to take them up at the moment. I trust that you’ll give me time, and not press me too harshly.”
With a smile that expressed irony qualified by enjoyment, the creditor replied: “’T is a pleasure to aid a man to whom I am indebted for so much courtesy.”
Sir Frederick’s ashen hue changed to a ruddy one, as he said: “Lord Clowes, ’t is a bitter mouthful for a man to eat, but I ask your clemency till my luck changes, for change it must, since cards and dice cannot always run against one. I know I deserve it not at your hands, after what has passed—”
“Cease your stuttering, man,” ordered the commissary. “Had I revenge in my heart I’d have sent the bailiff not come myself. The bills shall wait your convenience, and all I ask for the lenience is that ye dine with me and do me one service. Ye did me a bad stroke with Miss Meredith; now I ask ye to offset it by telling her what my vengeance has been.”
Mobray hesitated. “Lord Clowes, I will do nothing to trick Miss Meredith, desperately placed as I am.”
“Chut! Who talks of trickery? Ye told her the facts of my parole; therefore ye owe it to me, even though it may not serve your own suit, to tell her as well what is in my favour.”
“And so help you to win her. I cannot do her that wrong, my Lord.”
“Is it worse to tell her only the truth about me than to seek to persuade her into a marriage with a bankrupt?”
“You state it unsparingly.”
“Not more so, I doubt not, than ye did the matter of my parole—which some day I shall be able to justify, and the gentlemen of the army will then sing a very altered tune— with this difference, that I say it to your face and ye did not.”