"May I see you now? It is about a rather awkward little matter."
It was growing late. Helen reflected that he could not stay long before his own dinner time and hers, that he evidently had something especial to say, and that she was certainly strong enough to keep her own counsel for a quarter of an hour if she made up her mind to do so. Besides, it must seem strange to him to be refused a second time; he would infer that something was wrong and would ask questions when they next met. She decided to see him.
His face was grave, and he was quite calm again. As he took her hand and spoke, there was a sort of quiet tenderness in his manner and tone, a little beyond what he usually showed, perceptible to her, who longed for it, though it could hardly have been noticed by any one else.
"It is rather an awkward little matter," he said, repeating the words he had written.
Then he saw her face in the twilight, and he guessed that she had seen the newspaper.
"You are in trouble," he said quickly.
She hesitated and turned from him, for she had forgotten that her face must betray her distress.
"Yes," she answered, but she said no more than that.
"Can I help you?" he asked after a short pause.
"Please do not ask me."