“What sort of repute?” growled Rundel.
“Yes,” O’Hagan nodded, and dropped his monocle. “That sort!”
Sir Roger got upon his feet, and began to pace up and down a square of Persian carpet.
“We know one another, O’Hagan. There’s not another man in England I’d confide in. But—well—Beesley told me about this afternoon—at Mrs. Pointzby-North’s, and I said, ‘Same old O’Hagan!’ That’s what it is, O’Hagan: there’s only one of you—only one of you! This—friendship—between my wife and Haverley is nothing—from Val’s point of view. Understand? She means no harm.”
“What attitude have you adopted?”
“No attitude. Overlooked it. But I’m going away; and I will not have Val talked about, and I will not be made to look ridiculous. In a word, O’Hagan, I’ll have no damned cavalière servante with Haverley’s reputation dangling after my wife!”
“Well?” said O’Hagan, calmly sipping coffee.
“Val’s younger than me; and I don’t want her to think that I think—see what I mean? I can’t speak to her.”
“I follow you perfectly,” said O’Hagan. “You can speak to neither party without the risk of precipitating what you wish to avoid. Thanks for entrusting this matter to me, Rundel. I will call out Captain Haverley to-morrow morning!”
“My dear fellow! never do at all!”