"I wouldn't touch him with a pole before the war," said Brackenbury with his wonted elegance. "But now, when even his best friends refuse to meet him—"
"Exactly," I interrupted. "You would like him to feel that that is our standard of sincerity and good-will."
"But how is it your concern?," he asked. "You've kept clear of that gang in the past, so why dirty your hands with it now? If you fancy you're going to get money out of him, or a job for Will, I warn you that you're no match for him. He'll use you readily enough, but he never does anything for anybody without looking for a return. We don't want these gentry in England."
"I met him," I answered. "I liked him, I was sorry for him. And, if I try to shew him a little kindness, I really cannot allow you, Brackenbury, to make yourself a ruler and a judge. Do I gather that you and Ruth would prefer not to dine?"
"If it's money you want, I'd almost pay you not to meet him. That's how I feel about it."
All this, you understand, about a man he hardly knew by sight! ... I found it in my heart to wish that Brackenbury had been present when the Erskines dined. Nothing could have been more charming. He talked too wonderfully about music; I asked him a little about himself, he asked me about myself—that delightful first exchange when you are laying the foundations of friendship. Having no children himself, he was of course most anxious to hear about Will—what he had done before the war, where he was in France at present, what he proposed to do when the war was over... As he had introduced the subject, I told him frankly that I found great difficulty in making up my mind and should be truly grateful if he would tell me, from his very wide experience, what he considered most hopeful. He promised to let me know; and, a few days later, when I was dining with him, he asked whether I expected Will home any time soon on leave, as he always had a certain number of openings in his own various businesses. This from the man who never did anything for anybody unless he expected a rich return, the man who used people but never allowed any one to use him... I had asked for nothing; in my haste I had told Arthur that we could look to him for nothing. And if you knew; the long agony of anxiety that I have endured... I may say, ever since we took Will away from Eton. I have seen my darling home in Mount Street threatened... The war was a god-send: something to keep him occupied, a little pocket-money; and, so long as he was not in danger, I prayed for it to go on...
"My dear Sir Adolphus," I said, "the first time he comes home you shall meet him."
That was in October. Suddenly, lo and behold! the armistice was upon us, and the whole world was looking out for jobs. I laboured and strove to bring Will home; and, the moment he arrived, I invited Sir Adolphus to dine. He telegraphed that he was at Rock Hill, but could we not spend a few days with him there? My maid was out. I began to pack with trembling fingers...
Is it not curious that difficulties always seem to come from the least expected quarter? Here was Will's whole future secured; he had woken up, as it were, with a golden spoon in his mouth. My dear, I had the utmost difficulty in persuading him to come at all. What he wanted was a holiday, he said; after all he had gone through, he was entitled to a good time. And, though he had never met the Erskines, he had formed an unreasoning prejudice against them which was incomprehensible in any one of his breadth of mind... I do assure you that we reached a deadlock.
"Will," I said very firmly, "I ask you to come."