But trembling with that other anxiety, Harry Vine had still the old sling of jealousy festering in his breast. Leslie had just come from Van Heldre’s; perhaps he had been talking with Madelaine even there; and, ignoring the proffer, Harry bowed coldly and was passing on, but Leslie laid his hand upon his arm.
“If I have been more in the wrong than I think, pray tell me,” said Leslie. “Come, Vine, you and I ought not to be ill friends.”
For a moment the desire was upon him to grasp the extended hand. It was a time when he was ready to cling to anyone for help and support, and the look in his eyes changed.
“Ah, that’s better!” said Leslie frankly. “I want to talk to you.”
Why not go with him? Why not tell Leslie all, and ask his help and advice? He needed both sorely. It was but a moment’s fancy, which he cast aside as mad. What would Leslie say to such a one as he? And how could he take the hand of a man who was taking the place which should be his?
Leslie stood still in the narrow seaport street for a few moments, looking after Harry, who had turned off suddenly and walked away.