“I’ll pay you what you like,” said Comethup quietly. “But one word more: what brought you over here? Who’s the woman?”
“What a dear old moralist you are!” exclaimed Brian, laughing. “I suppose you’re afraid I may be deserting some one else, eh? Well, let me tell you for your comfort that she’s rich; that she’s taken a fancy to me, held up a beckoning finger, and I—well, I followed. I dare say she’d have dropped me in a month or two, when she found that her poet was like most other men, so perhaps it’s as well that you’ve rescued me. And, when I come to think of it, it will be quite in keeping with my character that I should rush away at a moment’s notice, without even an apology. You see, we poor devils are always supposed to do the most unexpected things—never anything proper or regular, you know. Upon my word, now I come to think of it, this will be better than dangling after her. She’ll think all the more highly of me.”
“Let us hope so,” said Comethup. “Now, as I think we understand each other clearly, I’ll leave you; I’ll come to you in time for us to catch the train. I must get my things from the hotel.” He moved toward the door, hesitated a moment, and then came back again. “On second thoughts, I won’t leave you. Pack up your things and come with me now; we can dine together.”
“I see, you don’t trust me?” said Brian with a sneer.
“Frankly, I don’t; you’ve scarcely given me reason to do so. And the game is too desperate for me to run any risks.”
Brian shrugged his shoulders and began to get his things together. He stopped once or twice and glanced rebelliously at his cousin; but Comethup sat on the side of the bed, with his hands on his hips, looking steadily at him—a figure not to be reasoned with, or argued out of anything he had determined upon.
The dinner at Comethup’s hotel passed in silence until almost the finish; then Brian, warmed by wine, looked up at the man opposite, and shook his head at him rallyingly, and spoke in his most charming and playful manner: “My dear old boy, when I’m dead you shall write my biography, the whole amazing business—’pon my word, you shall!”
“No,” said Comethup, shaking his head; “I don’t think—I’m quite sure I couldn’t do that.”
“Why not?”