Llanvar himself, he said, had once been indirectly approached by a native acting obviously on the instructions of some European, with a view to the possibility of his benefiting financially if, “as a matter of form,” he would sign his name to certain documents which would be brought to him secretly. He had pretended to consent, hoping thereby to discover what was happening, but nothing further had transpired, from which he concluded, he said, that the members of the clique had decided not to trust him.
Hopford and Llanvar sat talking in the latter’s sitting-room over a whisky and soda before going to bed. Mostly they discussed the affairs of the evening; but from one subject to another they drifted until presently Hopford said:
“I wonder Johnson has never married, Llanvar. He is such a good fellow, and the sort of man women like, and he must be fairly well off.”
For some moments his host remained silent.
“Well, he wouldn’t mind my telling you, I think,” he said at last, “but in point of fact he was badly turned down some years ago by a girl, I think between ourselves he was fortunate not to marry. He was terribly in love with her, though, and it took him a long time to recover from the disappointment; I doubt if he has really recovered from it yet. He told me all about it once, and I think the confidence relieved his mind to some extent. It is bad to brood in complete silence over that sort of thing.”
“Was she English?”
“Yes, a Devonshire girl. She broke it off in order to marry a viscount; and three years after the marriage they separated. Whose fault it was of course I don’t know, but the girl was a selfish, self-centered little thing, and I think her husband must have been well rid of her.”
“Then you knew her?”
“Oh yes, I knew her.”
He smiled.