There's no risk of being found out. I'm
to drive, remember! There's no servant with us, old boy, to notice, and
tell tales."
Even Arnold began to see dimly by this time that he was likely to pay
his debt of obligation with interest--as Sir Patrick had foretold.
"What am I to say to her?" he asked. "I'm bound to do all I can do to
help you, and I will. But what am I to say?"
It was a natural question to put. It was not an easy question to answer.
What a man, under given muscular circumstances, could do, no person
living knew better than Geoffrey Delamayn. Of what a man, under given
social circumstances, could say, no person living knew less.
"Say?" he repeated. "Look here! say I'm half distracted, and all that.
And--wait a bit--tell her to stop where she is till I write to her."
Arnold hesitated. Absolutely ignorant of that low and limited form of
knowledge which is called "knowledge of the world," his inbred delicacy
of mind revealed to him the serious difficulty of the position which his
friend was asking him to occupy as plainly as if he was looking at it
through the warily-gathered experience of society of a man of twice his
age.
"Can't you write to her now, Geoffrey?" he asked.
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