Later during the day Hector talked to his brother in private.
He remembered how, years earlier, Tollemache had been his boyhood hero. From cricket to rugger, from bird-nesting to running with the harrier hounds, from single-stick fencing to a bout with the gloves, there was nothing which the other had not been able to do. Even afterwards, when both brothers belonged to the Dragoons and when Tollemache had got into debt. Hector had not lost his admiration, had often interceded for him with their father.
That card scandal?
Why—Hector said to himself that he understood. The temptation had been terrible, there had been that chorus girl—Gwendolyn something-or-other. Why, it would be all right, if Tollemache would only make a clean breast of it, if he would only play the game!
He put it into words, impulsively:
“Tollemache! I'm no jolly good at this sentimental stuff …”
“Nor I. Rather un-English, what?”
“Rather. But—I say—I'm fond of you, you know—”
“Thanks, old chap, and right back at you!”
“Then why aren't you frank with me? Why don't you 'fess up?”
“Nothing to 'fess up,” smiled Tollemache. “Upon my word, I had no idea it was you who were regent here—Al Nakia—and all that sort of drivel. That cad of a Higgins never told me that …”
“I'm not speaking about that, Tollemache. I mean the old card scandal!”
