Christopher drew his head between his shoulders as if expecting a blow. He twisted his mouth helplessly to one side.
“You came too late to me, much too late,” continued Owl-face. “Is it not a fact that the house alone remains the property of the Ulwings? It is true it could not be sold at present. Times are bad, but if I remember aright the grounds are exceptionally large, well situated in the middle of the town, and could bear a heavy mortgage.”
Christopher hung his head in desperation. The manager looked at him over his spectacles expectantly. For an instant, kind, human pity appeared in his eyes, then he sighed and dropped his hand with a heavy movement on his knee.
“I can lend you money on the house. That is the only way I can do it.”
With a motion of his hand, Christopher waved the suggestion away. He was in the mire, but he had strength enough to escape drowning in it. He struggled no more with himself. He felt he could never touch the house. At least let that be preserved clear for Anne. The house, the dear old house....
The banker rose when he had shaken hands with Christopher and went with him to the door.
“I was a great admirer of Mr. Ulwing the builder. I am sorry I cannot oblige his grandson. Perhaps another time,” he added in a murmur, as if he did not believe it himself.
Christopher smiled convulsively, painfully. Even when he reached the street this smile remained on his face and tortured his features. He caught hold of the corner of his mouth and pulled it downwards, sideways.
He did not know where he went. He ran into people. An old gentleman shouted at him angrily:
“Can’t you look out, young man?”