“Oh! thank you, no; I don’t mind a drenching, and it would take you too far out of your way.”
Mr. Plover and Mr. Charlton were leaving the room when Sir Simon’s voice arrested them.
“One moment, Charlton! Mr. Plover, pray wait a second. I need not assure any one present how deeply distressed I am by what has occurred to-night—distressed on behalf of every one concerned. I know you all share this feeling with me, and I trust you will not refuse me the only alleviation in your power.”
He stopped for a moment, while his hearers turned eager, responsive faces towards him.
“I ask you as a proof of friendship, of personal regard and kindness to myself, to be silent concerning what has happened under my roof to-night; to let it remain buried here amongst ourselves. Will you grant me this, probably the last favor I shall ever ask of you?”
His voice trembled a little; and his friends were touched, though they did not see where the last words pointed.
There was a murmur of assent from all, with one exception.
“Plover, I hope I may include your promise with that of my older friends?” continued the baronet, his voice still betraying emotion. “I have no right, it is true, to claim such an act of self-denial at your hands; I know,” he added with a faint laugh that was not ironical, only sad—“I know that it is a comfort to us all to talk of our misfortunes and complain of them to sympathizing acquaintances; but I appeal to you as a gentleman to forego that satisfaction, in order to save me from a bitter mortification.”
As he spoke, he held out his fine, high-bred hand to his guest.
Sir Simon did not profess to be a very deep reader of human nature, but the most accomplished Macchiavellist could not have divined and touched the right chords in his listener’s spirit with a surer hand than he had just done. Mr. Plover laid his shrivelled fingers in the baronet’s extended hand, and said with awkward bluntness: