A quick glance passed between them, and a shade of annoyance came over Goddard’s dark face. The analogy perhaps was closer than he intended. The other might retort with the gibes of Jacques.
“Of course it isn’t my business,” added Gleam in a deprecating tone. “But it might have been better for you to have waited—considering the change in your fortune, and your scheme of life generally. Well, I suppose folks will marry. It is even within the bounds of possibility I may do it myself one of these days.”
He put up his eye-glass and passed his fingers over his tight fair moustache, as if to prepare himself for the ordeal.
“It won’t interfere with any of our plans, I can assure you,” said Goddard.
“That’s right. Don’t let it, for goodness’ sake. But marriage is a function of two independent variables, as they say in the differential calculus—and a deuced tough function too. Anyhow, if you’re bent upon it, I wish you luck.”
They shook hands and parted. Goddard turned away slowly.
The Member’s words sounded again the note of warning, the same note that had rung in those of the old man on the previous day, the same that had rung in his own ears.
“But I should have been a knave to have done differently,” he thought to himself. “There was only one alternative.”
He had deliberately chosen the part of the fool.
“I am damned glad,” he said aloud, swinging his stick. “I’ll walk straight, now and ever afterwards, whatever happens.”