"He was—starving, I think."
"O-oh!" I had seen tragedy in the girl's face, now I saw it in the woman's. I told her as much as I dared. I hope I was merciful.
"Why didn't you hold him?" she cried, at one point of the story. "Oh, my God! Why did you let him go? Don't you know the sort of man he is?"
"I thought I was doing my best. I had only gone to get him some warm clothes. It was such a raw, foggy morning. That seemed the first thing."
"Some warm clothes!" she repeated, under her breath, looking round at the silk and silver and roses. Then she broke down, and cried and cried. Poor soul! I had to stop her at last. I was afraid she'd be ill.
She was very docile, dried her eyes, and begged my pardon for what she'd just said.
"You're his friend, aren't you?" she pleaded, "his real, true friend? You won't give him up?"
"What can I do? I'd even bear it for him if I could."
"No you couldn't," she said, tightening her lips and shaking her head decisively. "Nobody can bear anything for him. Do you think I didn't try?"
She rolled her handkerchief up into a ball, and tucked it away, with a resolute little gesture.