“I may as well say frankly,” impressively remarked Vreeland, “and, right here—once for all, that I can not enter your firm. I have made other plans. The thing you propose is impossible. I am sorry—but it is impossible.”
“How does Mrs. Willoughby look at it? I thought that you were getting on splendidly there?” feebly urged Hathorn, conscious that he was very rapidly slipping “down hill.”
There was a fine show of regret in Vreeland’s speaking eyes, as he slowly answered, “My dear boy! You have made the mistake of your life. There are some very ugly social rumors current in my clubs—” he paused, “more in sorrow than in anger.”
“And those stories wafted over the sea do not lose by the telling. I have refrained from even mentioning your name, or that of your wife, to Mrs. Willoughby since this petticoat cabal has taken up the subject of the impending social war. Women’s unbridled tongues are the furies’ whip-lashes.”
Hathorn sprang up in excitement. “By Jove! Hod! I look to you to tell me the whole miserable business. I’ve taken you up and worked you in at Lakemere. You have got to stand by me now.”
“Hold on! Stop right there,”
coldly remarked Vreeland, with a vicious gleam in his stony eyes. “I never mention a woman’s name. That is a point of honor with me. I am no club scavenger.
“You know what you owe to Elaine Willoughby. She was the architect of your fortunes. Perhaps she builded better than she knew.
“You can not face the situations publicly. I advise you to keep silent—and—to keep others silent.
“Now, beyond that I will not go. I feel that your references to me, and what you have done for me, authorize me to say that I have more than repaid you in the volunteer labors of your wedding.