"Vi," he said, abruptly, breaking into the middle of some story she was telling him.
"Well?" she said, turning her face to him, with a sudden light in her eyes, a light of hope and expectancy.
"I want to tell you," he said, passing his hand across his brow, "you know I have been in trouble lately. You may have heard something of it from Austin——"
"From Austin Ambrose?" she said. "No. Why should he tell me?"
"I didn't know. I thought perhaps he would. Vi, I have had a rough time of it—a very rough time of it. I don't think any man has suffered more than I have, during these last few months."
He leant forward in his chair, and put up his hand, so that it hid his face from her.
"Tell me, Blair," she said. "Poor Blair!" and stretching out her hand she laid it, softly as a feather, upon his.
Something in her voice, or perhaps it was the touch of her hand, reminded him of Margaret so keenly that he shuddered and his face went white.
She felt the shudder, and her acute sense saw the danger.
"Stop, Blair," she murmured. "Perhaps it is better that you should not tell me. Whatever it is—and it must have been something terrible—it will be well that you should forget it; and you won't forget it any the sooner by talking of it. No, don't tell me! But I am very sorry, Blair, very—very." Her face paled, and her lips, which were very close to his face as she bent forward, quivered. "I think I would go through a great deal to save you from pain, Blair. We are such old friends, are we not?"