“Got into a––mess?” he suggested encouragingly.
Hervey felt that he had an easy victim, but he smoked pensively for a moment before he spoke, keeping his great eyes turned well down upon the table-cover.
“Um––I lost a lot of money at poker the last time I was in the city. I was in an awful streak of bad luck; could do nothing right. Generally it’s the other way about. Now they’re pressing me to redeem the I.O.U.s. When they owe me I notice they’re not so eager about it.”
“That’s bad; I’m sorry to hear it.” Iredale’s eyes were smiling, whilst in their depths there was the faintest suspicion of irony. He was in no way imposed upon by the breadth of the fabrication. It was the old story. He, too, lit his pipe and leant back in his chair. “I hope the amount is not too overwhelming. If I can––er––be–––”
Hervey interrupted him eagerly. He brought his hand down heavily upon the table.
“By Jove! you are a good sort, George. If you could––just a loan, of course––you see I can offer you security on my certain inheritance of the farm–––”
But Iredale had no wish to hear anything about his future possibilities of inheritance. He interrupted him sharply, and his tone was unusually icy.
“Tut––tut, man. Never mind about that. In spite of your need of money, I hope it will be many a year before your mother leaves our farming world.”
“I trust so,” murmured Hervey, without enthusiasm.