“He stopped short, reeled, sank into his chair, and covered his face with his hands.
“‘My dear sir—I—really—I—I didn’t mean—’
“I stammered, perspiring at every pore, for the position was most painful.
“‘No, no,’ he said hastily, ‘I beg your pardon. But—but,’ he continued, striving manfully to master his emotion, ‘I have been very ill, sir, and I am weak. I have been unfortunate—almost starving at times. I have not broken bread since yesterday morning—I could not without selling my colours. I—I am much obliged—forgive me—let me go back to town. Oh, my God! has it come to this?’
“He sank back half fainting, but started as I roared out, ‘Go away!’ for Cobweb was coming into the room.
“‘Thank you,’ he said, softly as he saw what I had done. ‘It was kind of you.’
“‘My dear fellow,’ I said, ‘this is terrible;’ and I mopped my face. ‘There, sit still—back directly.’
“I ran out to find Cobweb in the hall.
“‘Oh, you dear, good father!’ she cried, with tears in her eyes. ‘What a kind surprise! But is anything wrong?’
“‘Artist little faint,’ I said. ‘Here, the sherry—biscuits. Stop away a bit.’