For a moment Bobby hesitated. If there were one man in all his
acquaintance whom he would have preferred that Madame de Corantin should
not know, it was Alistair Ramsey. Bobby had known him for a good many
years. The acquaintance dated back to a period when Ramsey was a
comparatively young man of fashionable manner and appearance on
half-commission with a firm of stockbrokers. Even then he aspired to
smart society, but this social recognition involved an expenditure
considerably beyond his earning capacity. In those days Bobby had
been of no small use to him. Many were the dinners to which Ramsey had
done the inviting, he the paying, and if that gentleman of fashion was
not above accepting the lavish attentions of the man about town, whom he
regarded as quite outside his own world, still less was he averse to the
loans forthcoming at moments of embarrassment, accompanied by a thinly
veiled hint from Bobby that they were repayable only when circumstances
permitted.

Bobby was not calculating, but without any deep reflection on the subject
he knew that Ramsey was "on the make," and it was not unreasonable to
expect him to have at least a kindly feeling for an old friend when he
"arrived." In this, however, he was disappointed. Though with the rise in
his fortunes Ramsey's vanity extinguished his sense of obligation, his
pride was not equal to paying his debts. Bobby may or may not have
realized that his former friend's gratitude was of the same quality as
his honour, but in any case he showed no resentment. He was sufficiently
accustomed to the ways of the successful to take them as they were, and
to pass over those characteristics to which, after all, they partly owe
their success. Indeed, had it been a question of introducing any one but
Madame de Corantin to Ramsey, he would have ignored the latter's
insolence and ingratitude alike and conformed to his habitual role as
purveyor of amusement to all and sundry. For Bobby's dignity was not