"Our investments and our loans are of a different character," he explained, "but I have no doubt that Fane, Harmon & Co.—"
"Why, both Fane and Harmon are members of the club!" laughed Selwyn. "You don't expect Neergard to go to them?"
A peculiar expression flickered in Gerard's heavy features; perhaps he thought that Fane and Harmon and Jack Ruthven were not above exploiting their own club under certain circumstances. But whatever his opinion, he said nothing further; and, suggesting that Selwyn remain to dine, went off to dress.
A few moments later he returned, crestfallen and conciliatory:
"I forgot, Nina and I are dining at the Orchils. Come up a moment; she wants to speak to you."
So they took the rose-tinted rococo elevator; Austin went away to his own quarters, and Selwyn tapped at Nina's boudoir.
"Is that you, Phil? One minute; Watson is finishing my hair. . . . Come in, now; and kindly keep your distance, my friend. Do you suppose I want Rosamund to know what brand of war-paint I use?"
"Rosamund," he repeated, with a good-humoured shrug; "it's likely—isn't it?"
"Certainly it's likely. You'd never know you were telling her anything—but she'd extract every detail in ten seconds. . . . I understand she adores you, Phil. What have you done to her?"
"That's likely, too," he remarked, remembering his savagely polite rebuke to that young matron after the Minster dinner.