"Of course we know all that. The question now is, what can we do to help her? She is living now at this present moment, an orderly, sober life; but without occupation, or means, or friends. Will your wife let her come to her,—for a month or so, just to try her?"
"Come and live here!" exclaimed the ironmonger.
"That is what I would suggest. Who is to give her the shelter of a roof, if a sister will not?"
"I don't think that Mrs. Jay would undertake that," said the ironmonger, who had ceased to rub his hands and to bow, and whose face had now become singularly long and lugubrious.
"May I ask her?"
"It wouldn't do any good, Mr. Fenwick;—it wouldn't indeed."
"It ought to do good. May I try?"
"If you ask me, Mr. Fenwick, I should say no; indeed I should. Mrs. Jay isn't any way strong, and the bare mention of that disreputable connexion produces a sickness internally;—it does, indeed, Mr. Fenwick."
"You will do nothing, then, to save from perdition the sister of your own wife;—and will let your wife do nothing?"
"Now, Mr. Fenwick, don't be hard on me;—pray don't be hard on me. I have been respectable, and have always had respectable people about me. If my wife's family are turning wrong, isn't that bad enough on me without your coming to say such things as this to me? Really, Mr. Fenwick, if you'd think of it, you wouldn't be so hard."