"She's asleep—sound asleep. So I—may I stay a few minutes with you, Doris? I—I've got the blues awfully badly." She came to the Nun and knelt down beside her. Suddenly she broke into a torrent of sobs. Andy heard her say through them, "Oh, it reminds me—!"
Doris looked at him and nodded. "I shall see you soon in London, Andy?"
He pressed her hand and left the two girls together.
Gilly Foot was smoking a reflective pipe outside the door; he had possessed himself of the key and sent the sleepy "Boots" to bed. Andy obtained leave of absence for the morrow.
"Rather a disturbed evening, eh, Andy?" said Gilly, smoking thoughtfully. "Lucky it didn't happen till we'd done supper! Fact is one doesn't like to say it of an old friend—but Harry Belfield's no good."
Andy had a whimsical idea that at such a sentiment the stones of Meriton High Street would cry out. The pet and the pride of the town, the man of all accomplishments, the man who was to have that wonderful career—here he was being cavalierly and curtly dismissed as "no good."
"Come, we must give him another chance," Andy urged.
Gilly knocked out his pipe with an air of decision.
"Rotten—rotten at the core, old boy, that's it," he said, as with a nod of good-night he entered the precincts of the Lion.
Andy Hayes was sore to the heart. He had thought that a catastrophe such as this, a "row," would be the best thing—the best for Vivien Wellgood. He was even surer of it now—even now, when to think of the pain she suffered sent a pang through his heart. But what a light that increased certainty of his threw on Harry Belfield! And, as he said to himself, trudging home from the Lion, Harry had always been a part of his life—in early days a very big part—and one of the most cherished. Harry's hand had been the source whence benefits flowed; Harry's example had been an inspiration. Whatever Harry had done now, or might do in the future—that future now suddenly become so much less assured, so much harder to foresee—the great debt remained. Andy did not grudge "sweeping up the pieces." Alas, that he could not mend the broken pitcher! Sore as his heart was for the blow that had fallen on Vivien—on her so frail that the lightest touch of adversity seemed cruel—yet his sorest pain was that the blow came from Harry Belfield's hand. That filled him with a shame almost personal. He had so identified himself with his friend and hero, he had so shared in and profited by the good in him—his kindness, his generosity, his championship—that he could not rid himself of a feeling of sharing also in the evil. In the sullying of Harry's honour he saw his own stained—even as by Harry's high achievements he would have felt his own friendship glorified.