"No, no, of course not," said he, in a hasty way, not looking at me. "Of course not."
"What do you want me to do?" I asked.
"Why," he said, "the fact is, I've got myself into an awful muddle, and I don't know how in the world to get out of it."
"Can't Mary help you?" I said.
"I wouldn't tell Mary for the world," says he. "I'd sooner never see her again."
It seemed very strange to me. I didn't like to think how strange it was. For surely the natural way would have been to tell his trouble to Mary, who had been sister, mother, friend, everything to him. And yet the very thought of his turning to me was a joy that made my heart flutter and the whole place seem bright. I didn't so much trouble myself with thinking what the "muddle" was that he had got into. He wanted me to help him! That was the joy.
"Don't say that," I begged. "Mary is so sweet and good."
"Mary is goodness itself," he said. "But she has a hard side. You haven't seen Mary yet in one of her stern moods, sitting in judgment on a poor chap."
I wouldn't have believed that Mary ever sat in judgment on anybody, if they had been any lips except Walter Russell's that said it. But I could not contradict him.
"What is it I can do for you?" I asked, and I looked up in his face. "Tell me!" I said.