The God in the Car: A Novel. Hope Anthony

Sir Walter held him for a statesman and a man of the world.

      Seeing that what Sir Walter wanted was an unfavourable opinion of Ruston, he could not have done better than consult his respected friend. Juggernaut – Adela Ferrars was pleased with the nickname, and it began to be repeated – had been crushing Evan in one or two little ways lately, and he did it with an unconsciousness that increased the brutality. Besides displacing him from the position he wished to occupy at more than one social gathering, Ruston, being in the Lobby of the House one day (perhaps on Omofaga business), had likened the pretty (it was his epithet) young member, as he sped with a glass of water to his party leader, to Ganymede in a frock coat – a description, Evan felt, injurious to a serious politician.

      "A gentleman?" he said, in reply to young Sir Walter's inquiry. "Well, everybody's a gentleman now, so I suppose Ruston is."

      "I call him an unmannerly brute," observed Walter, "and I can't think why mother and Marjory are so civil to him."

      Evan shook his head mournfully.

      "You meet the fellow everywhere," he sighed.

      "Such an ugly mug as he's got too," pursued young Sir Walter. "But Marjory says it's full of character."

      "Character! I should think so. Enough to hang him on sight," said Evan bitterly.

      "He's been a lot to our place. Marjory seems to like him. I say, Haselden, do you remember what you spoke of after dinner at the Savoy the other day?"

      Evan nodded, looking rather embarrassed; indeed he blushed, and little as he liked doing that, it became him very well.

      "Did you mean it? Because, you know, I should like it awfully."

      "Thanks, Val, old man. Oh, rather, I meant it."

      Young Sir Walter lowered his voice and looked cautiously round – they were in the club smoking-room.

      "Because I thought, you know, that you were rather – you know – Adela Ferrars?"

      "Nothing in that, only pour passer le temps," Evan assured him with that superb man-of-the-worldliness.

      It was a pity that Adela could not hear him. But there was more to follow.

      "The truth is," resumed Evan – "and, of course, I rely on your discretion, Val – I thought there might be a – an obstacle."

      Young Sir Walter looked knowing.

      "When you were good enough to suggest what you did – about your sister – I doubted for a moment how such a thing would be received by – well, at a certain house."

      "Oh!"

      "I shouldn't wonder if you could guess."

      "N – no, I don't think so."

      "Well, it doesn't matter where."

      "Oh, but I say, you might as well tell me. Hang it, I've learnt to hold my tongue."

      "You hadn't noticed it? That's all right. I'm glad to hear it," said Evan, whose satisfaction was not conspicuous in his tone.

      "I'm so little in town, you see," said Walter tactfully.

      "Well – for heaven's sake, don't let it go any farther – Curzon Street."

      "What! Of course! Mrs. – "

      "All right, yes. But I've made up my mind. I shall drop all that. Best, isn't it?"

      Walter nodded a sagacious assent.

      "There was never anything in it, really," said Evan, and he was not displeased with his friend's incredulous expression. It is a great luxury to speak the truth and yet not be believed.

      "Now, what you propose," continued Evan, "is most – but, I say, Val, what does she think?"

      "She likes you – and you'll have all my influence," said the Head of the Family in a tone of importance.

      "But how do you know she likes me?" insisted Evan, whose off-hand air gave place to a manner betraying some trepidation.

      "I don't know for certain, of course. And, I say, Haselden, I believe mother's got an idea in her head about that fellow Ruston."

      "The devil! That brute! Oh, hang it, Val, she can't – your sister, I mean – I tell you what, I shan't play the fool any longer."

      Sir Walter cordially approved of increased activity, and the two young gentlemen, having settled one lady's future and disposed of the claims of two others to their complete satisfaction, betook themselves to recreation.

      Evan was not, however, of opinion that anything in the conversation above recorded, imposed upon him the obligation of avoiding entirely Mrs. Dennison's society. On the contrary, he took an early opportunity of going to see her. His attitude towards her was one of considerably greater deference than Sir Walter understood it to be, and he had a high idea of the value of her assistance. And he did not propose to deny himself such savour of sentiment as the lady would allow; and she generally allowed a little. He intended to say nothing about Ruston, but as it happened that Mrs. Dennison's wishes set in an opposing direction, he had not been long in the drawing room at Curzon Street before he found himself again with the name of his enemy on his lips. He spoke with refreshing frankness and an engaging confidence in his hostess' sympathy. Mrs. Dennison had no difficulty in seeing that he had a special reason for his bitterness.

      "Is it only because he called you Ganymede? And it's a very good name for you, Mr. Haselden."

      To be compared to Ganymede in private by a lady and in public by a scoffer, are things very different. Evan smiled complacently.

      "There's more than that, isn't there?" asked Mrs. Dennison.

      Evan admitted that there was more, and, in obedience to some skilful guidance, he revealed what there was more – what beyond mere offended dignity – between himself and Mr. Ruston. He had to complain of no lack of interest on the part of his listener. Mrs. Dennison questioned him closely as to his grounds for anticipating Ruston's rivalry. The idea was evidently quite new to her; and Evan was glad to detect her reluctance to accept it – she must think as he did about Willie Ruston. The tangible evidence appeared on examination reassuringly small, and Evan, by a strange conversion, found himself driven to defend his apprehensions by insisting on just that power of attraction in his foe which he had begun by denying altogether. But that, Mrs. Dennison objected, only showed, even if it existed, that Marjory might like Ruston, not that Ruston would return her liking. On the whole Mrs. Dennison comforted him, and, dismissing Ruston from the discussion, said with a smile,

      "So you're thinking of settling down already, are you?"

      "I say, Mrs. Dennison, you've always been awfully good to me; I wonder if you'd help me in this?"

      "How could I help you?"

      "Oh, lots of ways. Well, for instance, old Lady Valentine doesn't ask me there often. You see, I haven't got any money."

      "Poor boy! Of course you haven't. Nice young men never have any money."

      "So I don't get many chances of seeing her."

      "And I might arrange meetings for you? That's how I could help? Now, why should I help?"

      Evan was encouraged by this last question, put in his friend's doubtfully-serious doubtfully-playful manner.

      "It needn't," he said, in a tone rather more timid than young Sir Walter would have expected, "make any difference to our friendship, need it? If it meant that – "

      The sentence was left in expressive incompleteness.

      Mrs. Dennison wanted to laugh; but why should she hurt his feelings? He was a pleasant boy, and, in spite of his vanity, really a clever one. He had been a little spoilt; that was all. She turned her laugh in another direction.

      "Berthe Cormack would tell you that it would be sure to intensify it," she said. "Seriously, I shan't hate you for marrying, and I don't suppose Marjory will hate me."

      "Then" (Mrs. Dennison had to smile at that little word), "you'll help me?"

      "Perhaps," said Mrs. Dennison, allowing her smile to become manifest.

      "You