But the fist swerved and opened. The cheque-book, not Sir
William's person, was its objective. "Instead be damned," said Tim
Martlow, pitching the cheque-book to the floor. "To hell with your
money. Thought I was after money, did you?"
Sir William met his eye. "Yes, I did," he said hardily.
"That's the sort of mean idea you would have, Sir William Rumbold. They
say scum rises. You grew a handle to your name during the war, but you
ain't grown manners to go with it. War changes them that's changeable.
T'others are too set to change."
Sir William felt a strange glow of appreciation for this man who, with
so easy an opportunity to grow rich, refused money. "It's changed you,"
he said with ungrudging admiration that had no tincture of diplomacy in
it.
"Has it?" mused Tim. "From what?"
"Well--" Sir William was embarrassed. "From what you were."
"What was I?" demanded Tim. "Go on, spit it out. What sort of character
would you have given me then?" "I'd have called you," said Sir William
boldly, "a disreputable drunken loafer who never did an honest day's
work in his life.
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