“What sort?”

“Personal.  I felt—­began to feel—­the pressure on me.  There was, at moments, something almost of menace in his requests and suggestions—­an importunity I did not exactly understand. . . .  And then he said something to me—­”

“Go on; what?”

“He’d been hinting at it before; and even when I found him jolliest and most amusing and companionable I never thought of him as a—­a social possibility—­I mean among those who really count—­like my own people—­”

“Oh! he asked you to introduce him into your own family circle?”

“Yes—­I didn’t understand it at first—­until somehow I began to feel the pressure of it—­the vague but constant importunity. . . .  He was a good fellow—­at least I thought so; I hated to hurt him—­to assume any attitude that might wound him.  But, good heavens!—­he couldn’t seem to understand that nobody in our family would receive him—­although he had a certain footing with the Fanes and Harmons and a few others—­like the Siowitha people—­or at least the men of those families.  Don’t you see, Philip?”

“Yes, my boy, I see.  Go on!  When did he ask to be presented to—­your sister?”

“W-who told you that?” asked the boy with an angry flush.

“You did—­almost.  You were going to, anyway.  So that was it, was it?  That was when you realised a few things—­understood one or two things; was it not? . . .  And how did you reply?  Arrogantly, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

“With—­a—­some little show of—­a—­contempt?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Exactly.  And Neergard—­was put out—­slightly?”

“Yes,” said the boy, losing some of his colour.  “I—­a moment afterward I was sorry I had spoken so plainly; but I need not have been. . . .  He was very ugly about it.”

“Threats of calling loans?” asked Selwyn, smiling.

“Hints; not exactly threats.  I was in a bad way, too—­” The boy winced and swallowed hard; then, with sudden white desperation stamped on his drawn face:  “Oh, Philip—­it—­it is disgraceful enough—­but how am I going to tell you the rest?—­how can I speak of this matter to you—­”

“What matter?”

“A—­about—­about Mrs. Ruthven—­”

“What matter?” repeated Selwyn.  His voice rang a little, but the colour had fled from his face.

“She was—­Jack Ruthven charged her with—­and me—­charged me with—­”

“You!”

“Yes.”

“Well—­it was a lie, wasn’t it?” Selwyn’s ashy lips scarcely moved, but his eyes were narrowing to a glimmer.  “It was a lie, wasn’t it?” he repeated.

“Yes—­a lie.  I’d say it, anyway, you understand—­but it really was a lie.”

Selwyn quietly leaned back in his chair; a little colour returned to his cheeks.

“All right—­old fellow”—­his voice scarcely quivered—­“all right; go on.  I knew, of course, that Ruthven lied, but it was part of the story to hear you say so.  Go on.  What did Ruthven do?”