“Yes,” said Charles; “but the thing is, Wick, I was thinking of having dinner in town to-night. You see, there’s a boat to-morrow—”
“No, you don’t!” said Wickham. “You’re not going to do any such foolish and suicidal thing as that until we’ve had a talk.”
“Yes, but—”
“Charley,” said the other, “look here—I’m pretty tired. I can’t talk to you properly now, and I want to. I’m not demonstrative, and never was. Perhaps I haven’t let you see how much”—he paused, looking down at his desk—“how much I have your welfare at heart,” he ended stiffly.
“Wick, of course I’ve seen,” replied Charles, profoundly touched. “I’ve appreciated everything; only you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. I’m a born tramp, Wick. I’d really better go.”
“For the Lord’s sake, shut up!” said Wickham, half laughing. “I can’t talk to you until after dinner. Come along now and we’ll just make the five forty.”
II
It was Wickham’s habit to read a newspaper on the train going home, not because his preoccupied mind felt any great interest in the outside world, but because it was a protection. It kept people from talking to him.
This time, however, sitting beside Charles, he did not open his paper. He showed his brother an almost exaggerated courtesy. For Charles’s sake he made an effort he would have made for no one else. He tried to talk about old friends and old days, turning his worn and sensitive face toward the other with a look of fixed attention; but his mind wandered. A thousand little anxieties and exasperations stirred him, and he grew silent and distrait.
Then his glance fell upon the sleeve of that threadbare overcoat, upon a worn shoe carefully polished, and an almost unbearable compassion seized him. Charley come home again, penniless and broken in health at forty!