It was the first word, the first hint, the first presage of evil; of a fall, of bad weather, of a storm, distant as yet, and seen even by the clearest eyes only as a cloud no bigger than a man’s hand. But the word had been spoken. The hint had been given. And to Arthur, who had paid a high price for prosperity—how high only he could say—the presage seemed an outrage. The idea that the prosperity he had bought was not a certainty, that the craft on which he had embarked his fortune was, like other ships, at the mercy of storm and tempest, that like other ships it might founder with all its freight, was entirely new to him. So new that for a moment his face betrayed the impression it made. Then he told himself that the thing was incredible, that he started at shadows, and his natural confidence rebounded. “Oh, damn Rodd!” he cried—and he said it with all his heart. “He’s a croaker by nature!”
“Still, we won’t damn him,” the banker answered mildly. “On the contrary, we will profit by his warning. But go now. I have a letter to write. And do you go, too, Betty, and make tea for us.”
He turned to his papers, and Arthur, after a moment’s hesitation, followed Betty into the house. Overtaking her in the hall, “Betty, what is the matter?” he asked. And when the girl took no notice, but went on with her chin in the air as if he had not spoken, he seized her arm. “Come,” he said, “I am not going to have this. What is it?”
“What should it be! I don’t know what you mean,” she retorted.
“Oh yes, you do. What took you—to back up that ass in the bank just now?”
Then Betty astonished him. “I didn’t think he wanted any backing,” she said, her eyes bright. “He seemed to me to talk sense, and someone else nonsense.”
“But you’re not——”
“A partner in Ovington’s? No, Mr. Bourdillon, I am not—thank heaven! And so my head is not turned, and I can keep my temper and mind my manners.”
“Oh, it’s Mr. Bourdillon now, is it?”
“Yes—if you are going to behave to my friends as you did this afternoon.”