He was pouring out his incoherent charges and repetitions in a fretful petulance.
"The doctor says her nerves are all wrong; she must be left alone. I see it. She's not herself."
"Then that," said Ruston, "is the real reason why you're severing yourself from us?"
"I don't want her to hear anything more about it; she got absorbed in it. I told you she would, but you wouldn't listen. Tom Loring thought just the same. But you would go."
"Is she ill?"
"Oh, I don't know that she's ill. She's—she's not herself. She's strange."
The note of distress in his voice grew more acute as he went on.
"I'm very sorry," said Willie, baldly. "Give her my best——"
"If you want to see me again about it, I—you'll always know where to find me in the City, won't you?" He shuffled his feet nervously, and twisted the door-knob as he spoke.
"You mean," asked Ruston, slowly, "that I'd better not come here?"