The Boy looked up quickly, pain and pleading in his blue eyes. "I say, Desmond, don't hit so straight. I know I've been a brute to her; and I feel bad enough about it, without being slanged--by _you_." Theo Desmond's face softened, and he took the Boy's shoulders between his hands. "My dear lad," he said gently. "I'm sorry if I hit too hard. But I feel rather strongly on that subject. I've no wish to slang you. I only want to set you on your feet, and _keep you_ there. So we may as well get to business at once." "Set me on my feet! How the devil's _that_ to be done?" Desmond smiled. "It's simply a question of making up one's mind to things. In the first place we must sell Roland. He's the best pony you have." Harry straightened himself sharply, but Desmond's gesture commanded silence. "It's a cruel wrench, I know," he said gently. "Few men understand that better than myself. But it's all you can do. And you're bound to do it. You can advertise him as trained by me. He's safe to fetch seven hundred that way." Denvil bent his head in desperate resignation. "You are down on a fellow, Desmond. How about the other eight?" "That will be--my affair." Again the Boy was startled into protest. "Look here! That's impossible. I couldn't pay you back within the next three years." "Did I say anything about paying me back?" "_Desmond_--you don't mean----?" Their eyes met, and Denvil was answered. He brought his fist down on the bureau with such force that Evelyn's knick-knacks danced again. "By God, I won't have it!" he protested passionately. "I'll not take such a sum of money from you." Desmond's smile showed both approval and amusement. "No call for violence, Boy! I told you my mind was made up; and it's folly wasting powder and shot against a stone wall." "Look here, though--can you manage it--easily?" "Yes, I can manage it." And in the rush of relief Harry failed to note the significant omission of the adverb. "But it's to be a square bargain between us. No more _shroffs_; no more betting, or I come down on you like a ton of coals for my eight hundred. Stick to whist and polo in playtime. Polish up your Pushtoo, and get into closer touch with your Pathans. Start Persian with me, if you like, and replace Roland with the money you get for passing. But first of all write to your mother, and tell her the chief part of the truth. Not my share in it, please. That remains between ourselves and--my wife. She'll understand, never fear. Now--shake hands on that, and stick to it, will you?" "Desmond, you _are_ a trump!" "No need for compliments between you and me, Harry. Shut up and get on with your letter." Then, because his mind was freed from anxiety, he realised that the Boy's hand felt like hot parchment, and that his eyes were unusually bright. "You've got fever on you," he said brusquely. "Feel bad?"