"Mr. Pelham," renewed he, "it is true I have known you but a short time— excuse the liberty I take—but if you could lend me a trifle, it would really assist me very much."
"Mr. Thornton," said I, "if I knew you better, and could serve you more, you might apply to me for a more real assistance than any bagatelle I could afford you would be. If twenty pounds would really be of service to you, I will lend it you, upon this condition, that you never ask me for another farthing."
Thornton's face brightened. "A thousand, thousand—" he began.
"No," interrupted I, "no thanks, only your promise."
"Upon my honour," said Thornton, "I will never ask you for another farthing."
"There is honour among thieves," thought I, and so I took out the sum mentioned, and gave it to him. In good earnest, though I disliked the man, his threadbare garments and altered appearance moved me to compassion. While he was pocketing the money, which he did with the most unequivocal delight, a tall figure passed us rapidly. We both turned at the same instant, and recognised Glanville. He had not gone seven yards beyond us, before we observed his steps, which were very irregular, pause suddenly; a moment afterwards he fell against the iron rails of an area; we hastened towards him, he was apparently fainting. His countenance was perfectly livid, and marked with the traces of extreme exhaustion. I sent Thornton to the nearest public-house for some water; before he returned, Glanville had recovered.
"All—all—in vain," he said, slowly and unconsciously, "death is the only Lethe."
He started when he saw me. I made him lean on my arm, and we walked on slowly.
"I have already heard of your speech," said I. Glanville smiled with the usual faint and sicklied expression, which made his smile painful even in its exceeding sweetness.
"You have also already seen its effects; the excitement was too much for me."