“Have you given your uncle notice?”
Arthur hesitated. If he avowed that they had not given his uncle notice, how weak, how inept he would appear in the other’s eyes! A wave of exasperation shook him, as he saw the strait into which his mother’s obstinacy was forcing him. The opportunity which he valued so highly, the opening on which he had staked so much—was he to forfeit them through her folly? No, a hundred times, no! He would not let her ruin him, and, “Yes, we have given it,” he said, “but very late, I’m afraid. My mother had her doubts and I had to overcome them. I’m sorry, sir, that there has been this delay.”
“But the notice has been given now?”
“Yes.”
“Then in three months, as I understand——”
“The money will be ready, sir.” He spoke stoutly; the die was cast now, and he must go through with it. After all it was not his fault, but his mother’s; and for the rest, if the notice was not already given it should be this very day. “It will be ready in three months, but not earlier, I am afraid.”
Ovington reflected. “Well,” he said, “that must do. And we won’t wait. We will sign the agreement now and it shall take effect from next Monday, the payment to be made within three months. Go through the articles”—he opened his desk and took a paper from it and gave it to Arthur—“and come in with one of the clerks at five o’clock and we will complete it.”
Arthur hardly knew what to Bay. “It’s uncommonly kind of you, sir!” he stammered. “You may be sure I shall do my best to repay your kindness.”
“Well, I like you,” the banker rejoined. “And, of course, I see my own advantage in it. So that is settled.”
Arthur went out taking the paper with him, but in the passage he paused, his face gloomy. After all it was not too late. He could go back and tell Ovington that his mother—but no, he could not risk the banker’s good opinion. His mother must do it. She must do it. He was not going to see the chance of a lifetime wasted—for a silly scruple.