"It was a convenient promise," said Mark Inglefield, with easy assurance. "Had the portrait been that of his son he would not have made it. Mr. Hollingworth is a man of the world."
"There is no need for us to discuss that point. Your remark does you no credit, Inglefield."
"It was founded, sir," said Mark Inglefield, in a tone of respectful deference, "upon a knowledge of Mr. Hollingworth's character."
"Mr. Hollingworth would not thank you for that."
"Possibly not. Still I speak as a man of the world, as you know me to be, and as you are yourself. A man's experience must count in such matters. Is your story ended, sir?"
"Very nearly. When I left Mr. Hollingworth he expressed the intention of writing to you to-night, to the effect that your visits to his house must cease until you have cleared yourself. You will receive his letter in the morning. Mr. Parkinson also said something with which you should be made acquainted. He said you had ruined his daughter's life, and he made the solemn declaration that he would ruin yours if it cost him the last drop of his blood."
"He does not. Neither Mr. Hollingworth nor I enlightened him."
"That was only fair to me, sir. My good reputation is as dear to me as any man's. All the time you have known me there has been nothing dishonorable laid to my charge."
"I know of nothing, Inglefield; but then our courses have lain somewhat apart. There should certainly, in our relations, have been a closer confidence. However, all that is past, and it is not given to us to recall our actions. Now that we are speaking together, openly and frankly, there must be no reservations. I have plainly indicated to you the course I have resolved upon with respect to the story of Mary Parkinson. I have pledged myself to assist him in obtaining justice, and you know that I shall keep my word. Let me tell you that there appears to be something strange in your attitude on this question."
"What do you expect of me? I can afford to treat with quiet scorn the accusation which you seem to favor against me."
"You are still on the wrong tack--a surprise to me in a man of so much intelligence. I expected from you something more than general statements."
"If you would put direct questions to me," said Mark Inglefield, who all this time was in serious mental debate with himself, "I should cease from unconsciously offending you. I owe you much, sir, and all my future prospects depend upon you. Recognizing and acknowledging this, it would be the height of folly in me to disappoint you in any way; but, I repeat, I am in the dark as to what you expect from me."