"Yes," she replies, "I was called by that name once; but it is long ago, and I cannot understand how you should know about me."
"Have you forgotten Gus?" he asks. "Poor, ragged little Gus?"
"Gus!" she exclaims, looking pleased. "You don't mean to say that you are that little Gus! 'Gentleman Gus' they used to call you. Oh, I have so often wondered what had become of you; but I little thought to find you here! And to think that you should know me again!"
"You have not altered much," says Gus; "only I am sorry to see you looking ill. I, too, have often wondered about you, and where you went when you left the Terrace so suddenly. But never mind that now," he adds gently, as he sees her look of pain. "You shall tell me about that by-and-by; I'll tell my story first."
And, regardless of the fact that the work of the day is before him, he sits down beside her, and tells her the history of his life since they parted. She listens with close attention; but presently, he has to hurry away, with the promise that he will see her again in the evening.
It is growing dusk when again he finds himself at leisure to sit and talk with her; but he has found time during the day to inquire of the house surgeon concerning her. He learned that she was very ill. The long-seated hip disease had taken a new development; terrible abscesses were sapping her strength, which had been reduced, the surgeon thought, by poor living and close, sedentary occupation. As he heard it, Gus resolved within himself that there should be no more of that for Lucy. He was relieved to hear the surgeon say he did not consider the case a hopeless one.
"Lucy," says Gus gently, as he sits beside her, "will you not tell me about your life since last I saw you? You need not fear to speak freely to me. Where is your father?"
Once more the warm colour of shame rises in poor Lucy's face. For a few moments she cannot speak; then she summons courage to whisper—
"In prison, Gus."
Gus' face reflects the sorrow on hers.