Then she prayed for him so hard, so beseechingly, so eloquently, he was amazed and touched.
She rose from her knees, and laid her head on her hand, exhausted a little by her own earnestness.
He stood by her, and hung his head.
“You are very good,” he said. “It is a shame to let you waste it on me. Look here—I want to do a little bit of good to another man, after you praying so beautifully.”
“Ah! I am so glad. Tell me.”
“Well, then, you mustn't waste a thought on me, Rhoda. I'm a gambler and a fool: let me go to the dogs at once; it is only a question of time: but there's a fellow here that is in trouble, and doesn't deserve it, and he was a faithful friend to you, I believe. I never was. And he has got a wife: and by what I hear, you could get him out, I think, and I am sure you would be angry with me afterward if I didn't tell you; you have such a good heart. It is Sir Charles Bassett.”
“Sir Charles Bassett here! Oh, his poor wife! What drove him mad? Poor, poor Sir Charles!”
“Oh, he is all right. They have cured him entirely; but there is no getting him out, and he is beginning to lose heart, they say. There's a literary swell here can tell you all about it; he has come down expressly: but they are in a fix, and I think you could help them out. I wish you would let me introduce you to him.”
“To whom?”
“To Mr. Rolfe. You used to read his novels.”