Fane, too, smiled; his prominent soft brown eyes expressed gentlest good-humour, and he passed his hand reflectively over his unusually small and retreating chin.  Perhaps he was thinking of the meeting in the Park that morning.  It was amusing; but men do not speak of such things at their clubs, no matter how amusing.  Besides, if the story were aired and were traced to him, Ruthven might turn ugly.  There was no counting on Ruthven.

Meanwhile Selwyn, perplexed and worried, found young Erroll just entering the visitors’ room, and greeted him with nervous cordiality.

“If you can’t stay and dine with me,” he said, “I won’t put you down.  You know, of course, I can only ask you once in a year, so we’ll stay here and chat a bit.”

“Right you are,” said young Erroll, flinging off his very new and very fashionable overcoat—­a wonderfully handsome boy, with all the attraction that a quick, warm, impulsive manner carries.  “And I say, Selwyn, it was awfully decent of you to—­”

“Bosh!  Friends are for that sort of thing, Gerald.  Sit here—­” He looked at the young man hesitatingly; but Gerald calmly took the matter out of his jurisdiction by nodding his order to the club attendant.

“Lord, but I’m tired,” he said, sinking back into a big arm-chair; “I was up till daylight, and then I had to be in the office by nine, and to-night Billy Fleetwood is giving—­oh, something or other.  By the way, the market isn’t doing a thing to the shorts!  You’re not in, are you, Selwyn?”

“No, not that way.  I hope you are not, either; are you, Gerald?”

“Oh, it’s all right,” replied the young fellow confidently; and raising his glass, he nodded at Selwyn with a smile.

“You were mighty nice to me, anyhow,” he said, setting his glass aside and lighting a cigar.  “You see, I went to a dance, and after a while some of us cleared out, and Jack Ruthven offered us trouble; so half a dozen of us went there.  I had the worst cards a man ever drew to a kicker.  That was all about it.”

The boy was utterly unconscious that he was treading on delicate ground as he rattled on in his warmhearted, frank, and generous way.  Totally oblivious that the very name of Ruthven must be unwelcome if not offensive to his listener, he laughed through a description of the affair, its thrilling episodes, and Mrs. Jack Ruthven’s blind luck in the draw.

“One moment,” interrupted Selwyn, very gently; “do you mind saying whether you banked my check and drew against it?”

“Why, no; I just endorsed it over.”

“To—­to whom?—­if I may venture—­”

“Certainly,” he said, with a laugh; “to Mrs. Jack—­” Then, in a flash, for the first time the boy realised what he was saying, and stopped aghast, scarlet to his hair.

Selwyn’s face had little colour remaining in it, but he said very kindly:  “It’s all right, Gerald; don’t worry—­”

“I’m a beast!” broke out the boy; “I beg your pardon a thousand times.”