"Never," said Vincent—who was not going to recall a few restaurant bills and cab fares.
"No," resumed the banker, "Your name is Harris. But when it comes to Lord Musselburgh, that is quite different, that is all right. No doubt Lord Musselburgh was quite proud to be allowed to subscribe—how much was it?—towards a book that never came out."
"Oh, but I ought to explain that that money was paid back," said Vincent, quickly.
"Paid back?" repeated the banker, staring. "That is a new feature, indeed! The money paid back to Lord Musselburgh? How did that come about? How did friend George yield to a weakness of that kind?"
"The fact is," said Vincent, blushing like a school-boy, "I paid it."
"Without letting the old gentleman know?"
"Then excuse my saying so," Mr. Thomson observed, "but you threw away your money to very little purpose. If George Bethune is willing to take a cheque from Lord Musselburgh—if he can do so without the slightest loss of self-respect or dignity—why should not his lordship be allowed to help a brother Scot? Why should you interfere?"
"It was for Maisrie’s sake," said Vincent, looking down.
"Ah, yes, yes," the banker said, knitting his brows. "That is where the trouble comes in. I shouldn’t mind letting George Bethune go his own way; he is all right; his self-sufficiency will carry him through anything: but for a sensitive girl like that it must be terrible. I wonder how much she suspects," he went on. "I wonder how much she sees. Or if it is possible he has blinded her as well as himself to their circumstances? For you must remember this—I am talking to you now, Mr. Harris, as one who may have a closer relationship with these two—you must remember this, that to himself George Bethune’s conscience is as clear as that of a one-year-old child. Do you think he sees anything shady or unsatisfactory in these little transactions or forgetfulnesses of his? He is careless of money because he despises it. If he had any, and you wanted it, it would be yours."
"I know that," said Vincent, eagerly; and he told the story of their meeting the poor woman in Hyde Park.
"Take that string of charges you spoke of," the banker resumed. "I have not the least doubt that from the point of view of the people who discovered those things their story was quite accurate. Except, perhaps, about his calling himself Lord Bethune: I don’t believe that, and never heard of it; that was more likely a bit of toadyism on the part of some bar-loungers. But, as I say, from a solicitor’s point of view, George Bethune would no doubt be regarded as a habitual impostor; whereas to himself he is no impostor at all, but a perfectly honourable person, whose every act can challenge the light of day. If there is any wrong or injury in the relations between him and the world, be sure he considers himself the wronged and injured one: though you must admit he does not complain. The question is—does Margaret see? Or has he brought her up in that world of imagination—careless of the real facts of life—persuading yourself of anything you wish to believe—thinking little of rent or butchers’ bills so long as you can escape into the merry green-wood and live with Burd Helens and May Colleans and the like? You see, when I knew her she was little more than a child; it would never occur to her to question the conduct of her grandfather; but now you say she is a woman—she may have begun to look at things for herself——"