"I don't understand you," said Mr. Clutterbuck in real perturbation and suffering. "I don't understand you. Can't you speak like everybody else? I'm tired of the lot!"
It was a genuine little cry of pain and William Bailey, being a fanatic, was sentimental and was saddened.
"What's up?" he said.
Mr. Clutterbuck told him. First briefly, then at length, then with passion he poured out his great wrong. The money paid, accepted—all his friends told—and then the humiliation of New Year's day.
William Bailey walked him back and forth before the Palace, then he said:
"We'll get in a cab, I shall have less time to speak in that way," and after that last paradox he talked sense; but it was very brief sense.
He simply told Mr. Clutterbuck in the short two hundred yards which led them to the station, that if he really wanted help, the unhappy William Bailey was there, and having said that, when Mr. Clutterbuck had taken his ticket and was off to the wicket, he looked for half a second into the merchant's eyes with that strange and dangerous power which the demagogue has commanded in all ages: to the untutored mind of Mr. Clutterbuck it was a glance of singular fascination. So they parted.
FOOTNOTES:
[6] The Dean of Portsmouth, "Mixed Sermons," vol. iii. p. 465. Heintz & Sons. 42s. London: 1910.
[7] Ozee, xvii. 8.