It brought a cloud to her friend’s face. “Then he’ll be capable of anything.”
“Of anything, no doubt, but of making my father capable—! And you haven’t at any rate,” she said, “so much as seen the picture.”
“I beg your pardon—I saw it at the Guildhall three years ago; and am almost afraid of getting again, with a fresh sense of its beauty, a livelier sense of its danger.”
Lady Grace, however, was so far from fear that she could even afford pity. “Poor baffled Mr. Bender!”
“Oh, rich and confident Mr. Bender!” Crimble cried. “Once given his money, his confidence is a horrid engine in itself—there’s the rub! I dare say”—the young man saw it all—“he has brought his poisonous cheque.”
She gave it her less exasperated wonder. “One has heard of that, but only in the case of some particularly pushing dealer.”
“And Mr. Bender, to do him justice, isn’t a particularly pushing dealer?”
“No,” Lady Grace judiciously returned; “I think he’s not a dealer at all, but just what you a moment ago spoke of yourself as being.”
He gave a glance at his possibly wild recent past. “A fond true lover?”
“As we all were in our lucky time—when we rum-aged Italy and Spain.”