Leo would have hastily agreed, so as to leave no room for the second supposition, but he foresaw what the consequences would be, and was silent.
Ulrich's eyes rested on him in burning solicitude. He tugged at his thin beard, awaiting an answer, shook his head, and then continued. "But I say to myself that my light-hearted comrade of old would never let himself be depressed by such cares, ... and, besides, it would be a breach of faith of the worst sort if he was uneasy for a minute about money, so long as my cheque-book contains in it an unwritten page. It's true, I hope, that you would never do me such a wrong?"
"No, no!" exclaimed Leo, and looked as if he were about to seize his friend's hand, but his courage failed him.
"You'll swear it?"
"Yes, of course! I swear it," he replied. One falsehood more or less signified little now. He knew that he would rather cut off his right hand than take a single farthing from the hand that now lay cold and gentle in his.
"And then I say to myself," went on Ulrich, "a man who was born to laugh and be merry doesn't become moody and despondent for nothing. If it's not debts that prey on him, it is guilt."
Leo passed his hand over his forehead and withdrew it damp. "And what may the guilt be?" he asked, trying to laugh.
"Yes, I have asked myself that question too. What can it be, when he is afraid to speak of it to me? And I have argued further, it must be something that he fears to pain me by confessing, otherwise his silence would have no motive. It must be, therefore, something in which I am myself concerned."
Leo, half risen, clung to the arms of his chair. He was extremely upset.
"I am as transparent as glass to him," he thought. Only Ulrich's friendly, almost mournful calmness still remained a riddle to him. And this calmness restrained him, else would he have sought before to save himself from what was coming.