"No," Gerard answered, compassionately translating the last weeks' writing on the candid face. "I am not likely to think that, Corrie. But do not give me credit not due; I am not unusually forgiving or wise, it is, indeed, merely that I understand fairly well. And when one understands the other man, there seldom is anything to forgive."
"Thank you. It's because you always understand one that I've come here to-night. I, I guess I've about realized that I'm not quite nineteen years old yet and pretty much a fool. I don't suppose anyone ever meant better than I did, or ever did worse at it. Gerard, my father has sent me off. Oh, not like that!" as the other man moved, startled. "I mean, he has told me to go away for a year or two, anywhere I like, until people forget. He says he doesn't want to see me for a while. No one does, except my sister. There is no one on earth for whom I care who looks the same as before at me except her, and you. I'm sent off to live alone and I have never been alone in my life. I'm afraid of myself, sick, afraid to be alone—take me with you."
"Corrie?"
The boy's impetuous gesture interrupted.
"Don't say no! It ought to kill me to look at you, it almost does, but it's worse away. Let me go where you are going, let me work in your factory, if it's at shovelling coal. Don't send me off alone with more money than I can spend and nothing to do with myself. I can't stand it—I'd go under! You would better have let Rupert send me to prison for wrecking your car. I've tried to stand what seemed up to me, but I'm near my limit. Gerard, help me see it through."
There was a quality of desperation in the appeal that was like a clutching grasp. Gerard felt his own nerves draw tense while his answer leaped to the present and future need.
"You are the exact man I want at the factory, Corrie," he assured, with all steadying naturalness and calm. "Take off your overcoat and come sit down; you are not going right out again. I've got work for you that will keep you guessing, as Rupert says. Let me see, it's eight o'clock and you walked over; I'll wager you have had no dinner."
"I don't want anything," Corrie refused, his face averted, his fingers gripping the mantel-shelf until his nails showed white from pressure.
"All right; I do. I declined my coffee and some of Mrs. Carter's ambrosial apple pie, this evening, and I have been repenting ever since. You are a fine pretext for having them brought in to us now. Besides, I shall have to keep you in good shape if you are going to help me put through a scheme of mine. Of course, I am not altering my plan of living merely because I have got one arm to use in place of two. I have to have some things done for me instead of doing them myself, that's all. I need you," he paused, and lifted to his companion the cordial brilliancy of his smile, "and I am glad to have you, Corrie."
When, an hour later, the guest rose to depart, Gerard detained him for a final word.