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Updated: May 25, 2025
You have the look of some one I knew years ago some one I didn't like but I can't remember who." "Just as well, perhaps," said Babbacombe, with a careless laugh, though a faint flush of annoyance rose in his face. "Come over here, West. You can smoke. My sister likes it." He seated himself at the piano, indicated a chair near him to his guest, and began to play.
He's done nearly twelve, and he's coming out next month on ticket-of-leave." "Oh, Cynthia!" Babbacombe bent his head suddenly upon her hand, and sat tense and silent. "I know," she said "I know. It sounds simply monstrous, put into bald words. I sometimes wonder myself if it can possibly be true if I, Cynthia Mortimer, can really be such a fool.
"At once. I am going now to make arrangements." "May I go in and see her if she will admit me?" "I don't advise it to-night. She is excited and overstrung. To-morrow, perhaps, if all goes well. Come round to my house at two o'clock, and I will let you know." But Babbacombe did not see her the next day, for it was found advisable to keep her absolutely quiet.
She has got to realise that I'm a swindler to the marrow of my bones, that I couldn't turn to and lead a decent, honourable life even for love of her." The words fell grimly, but there was no mockery in the steely eyes, no feeling of any sort. They looked full at Babbacombe with unflickering steadiness, that was all. Babbacombe listened in the silence of a great amazement.
Babbacombe nodded, conscious for the first time of a warmth of sympathy for the man. Whatever his sins, he must have suffered infernally during the past twelve years. Twelve years! Ye gods! It was half a life-time! It represented the whole of his manhood to Babbacombe. Twelve years ago he had been an undergraduate at Cambridge.
Babbacombe's guests departed upon the following day. Cynthia was among the first to leave. With a flushed face and sparkling eyes she made her farewells, and even Babbacombe, closely as he observed her, detected no hint of strain in her demeanour. Returning from the station in the afternoon after speeding some of his guests, he dropped into the local bank to change a cheque.
It was not till long after that he recalled it. West wrote to him regularly during his absence, curt, businesslike epistles, which always terminated on a grim note of irony: "Your faithful steward, N. V. West." He never varied this joke, and Babbacombe usually noted it with a faint frown. The fellow was not a bad sort, he was convinced, but he would always be more or less of an enigma to him.
Babbacombe turned back into the room. He was grappling with the hardest task he had ever had to tackle. West followed him in absolute silence. With an immense effort, Babbacombe spoke: "I was at the bank just now. I went to get some cash. I was told that my account was overdrawn. I can't understand it. There seems to have been some mistake." He paused, but West said nothing whatever.
To which Babbacombe made composed reply: "I know all about him, and he is absolutely trustworthy. He was recommended to me by a friend. I am sorry you thought it necessary to be rude to him. There is nothing offensive about him that I can see." "My dear boy, you see nothing offensive in a great many people whom I positively detest. However, he isn't worth an argument.
He is hardly a ladies' man, according to my judgment, but he is not a bounder. I haven't asked him to meet you to-night. I thought it better not. In fact, I " He broke off at the sound of a step behind him. With a start Cynthia turned. A short, thick-set man in riding-dress was walking up the room. "I beg your pardon," he said formally, halting a few paces from Babbacombe.
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