“And has gone?” said Denville nervously. “She—she—is coming back here?”
“I think so. Yes, I believe my wife said she was; but, hang it, Denville, why don’t you speak out, man? What’s the matter? Perhaps I can help you.”
“Help me?” faltered the miserable man. “No; it is not a case where money could assist me.”
“Money, sir! I offered the help of a friend,” said Barclay warmly. “Come, speak out. You are in trouble.”
Denville looked at him hesitatingly, but did not speak.
“I don’t ask for your confidence,” said Barclay, “but you have done me more than one good turn, Denville, and I want to help you if I can.”
Still the old man hesitated; but at last he seemed to master his hesitation, and, catching the other’s sleeve, he whispered:
“A scandalous place, my dear Barclay. I used to smile at these things, but of late my troubles have a good deal broken me down. I am changed. I know everybody, but I have no friends, and—there, I confess it, I came to speak to your wife, to ask her advice and help, for at times I feel as if the kindly words and interest of some true woman would make my load easier to bear.”
“Nothing like a good friend,” said Barclay gruffly.
“Yes—exactly. You’ll pardon me, Barclay; you have been very kind, but your manner does not invite confidence. I feel that I cannot speak to you as I could wish.”