But Hockmaster looked pained.
“I see, Mr. Chetwynd. What you can't do is to pal on to a man who has betrayed a woman's honour.”
Raine felt embarrassed. He was aware that he had been disingenuous in shifting the whole weight of his disgust and anger on to that one particular point. The direct appeal did not lack manliness, was evidently sincere. It stirred within him the sense of justice. He tried to realize his attitude towards Hockmaster in the case of Katherine being merely a chance acquaintance. Obviously all the complex feelings centering round his love for her ought to go for nothing in his judgment of Hockmaster. Raine was an honourable man, who hated hypocrisy and prejudice and unfair dealing, and the detection of them in himself brought with it an irritating sense of shame.
“I have the privilege of the friendship of the lady in question,” he replied to the American, “and therefore felt a personal resentment of your confidence last night.”
“Mr. Chetwynd,” returned Hockmaster, leaning forward earnestly with his elbows on the table, “there is only one way in which I can make things square, and that is to take you into my confidence still further.”
“Oh, for God's sake, man, let us drop the subject!”
“No. For I think you'll be pleased. You are a straight, honourable man, and I want to act in a straight, honourable way. Do you see that?”
“Perfectly,” said Raine. “But don't you also see that this is a matter that cannot be discussed? A woman's name cannot be bandied about by two men. Come, we will let bygones be bygones.”
He rose, grasping his stick, as if to depart, and held out his hand. But the American, somewhat to Raine's astonishment, made a deprecating gesture and also rose to his feet.
“No. Not yet,” he said blandly. “Not before you feel sure I am doing the straight thing. You called me a cad, last night, didn't you?”