“Why?” she exclaimed softly.
“Because,” I said, “it is breaking his heart.”
“Is—is he so constant in his attentions to it?”
“Oh yes, Miss Carr. Whenever he can spare a minute, he is working or dreaming over it; he calls it his love—his mistress, in a half-mocking sort of spirit. Poor fellow, it is a sad life.”
There was again a deep silence in the room.
“Antony,” she said again, “why do you not help your friend?”
“I do,” I said eagerly. “I have worked at it all night with him sometimes, and spent all my pocket-money upon it—though he doesn’t know it. He thinks I have turned some of the wheels and spindles myself, but I set some of our best workmen to do it, and cut me the cogs and ratchets.”
“And paid for them yourself?”
“Yes, Miss Carr. I could not have made them well enough.”
“But why not help him more substantially, Antony? With the money that is required?”