“I want to say,” began Plank, speaking the more slowly because he was deeply in earnest, “that all this you are doing for me is very handsome of you, Mortimer. I'd like to say—to convey to you something of how I feel about the way you and Mrs. Mortimer—”
“Oh, Leila has done it all.”
“Mrs. Mortimer is very kind, and you have been so, too. I—I wish there was something—some way to—to—”
“To what?” asked Mortimer so bluntly that Plank flushed up and stammered:
“To be—to do a—to show my gratitude.”
“How? You're scarcely in a position to do anything for us,” said Mortimer, brutally staring him out of countenance.
“I know it,” said Plank, the painful flush deepening.
Mortimer, fussing and growling over his cigar, was nevertheless stealthily intent on the game which had so long absorbed him. His wits, clogged, dulled by excesses, were now aroused to a sort of gross activity through the menace of necessity. At last Plank had given him an opening. He recognised his chance.
“There's one thing,” he said deliberately, “that I won't stand for, and that's any vulgar misconception on your part of my friendship for you. Do you follow me?”
“I don't misunderstand it,” protested Plank, angry and astonished; “I don't—”