The tight-rope trembled; the crowd roared like angry beasts.... This dream was ruining Mr. Nix.
And through it all, like a refrain that set rhythm and measure to the rest, was the sense that he ought to do "something" for Mrs. Nix, that she was unhappy, but would not tell him about her unhappiness, that he should come closer to her, and did not know how.
Into this new troubled confusion of Mr. Nix's life came a figure. One day a young man who had known Lancelot in France came to see them. His name was Harry Harper. He was little more than a boy, was in the London Joint City and Midland Bank, and was as fresh and charming a lad as you would be likely to find anywhere. Mr. Nix liked him at once. In the first place, he had many new things to tell about Lance, and he told them in just the right way, with sentiment, but not too much, with humour a little, and with real appreciation of Lance's bravery, and his popularity with his men, and his charm with everyone.
Mrs. Nix sat there, on her bright red sofa, whilst young Harper told his tale, and her face was as red as the furniture. The tears glittered in her eyes, but they did not fall. Her plump hands were locked lightly on her lap. She stared before her as though she were seeing straight through into the horrors of that terrible No Man's Land, where her boy had faced the best and the worst and made his choice.
"He was always a good boy," she said at last. "You will understand, Mr. Harper, I'm sure. From his very cradle he was good. He never cried like other babies and made a fuss. Of course, as he grew older he had a little of the devil in him, as one might say. I'm sure no mother would have it otherwise. But—Oh! he was a good boy!"
"There, there, mother," said Mr. Nix, patting her soft shoulder. "I'm sure it's very good of you, Mr. Harper, to come and tell us all this. You can understand that we appreciate it."
Young Harper took it all the right way. His tact was wonderful for a boy of his years. Mr. Nix, who, like most Englishmen, was a deep-dyed sentimentalist without knowing it, loved the boy.
"You come and see us whenever you like. We're in most evenings. You'll always be welcome." Harper availed himself of the invitation and came very often. He was leading, it seemed, a lonely life. His parents lived in Newcastle and they had many children. His lodgings were far away in Pimlico, and he had few friends in London. Before a month had passed he was occupying a little spare bedroom in the Nix quarters—a very little bedroom, but wonderful for him, he declared, being so marvellously in the centre of London. "You've given me a home," he cried; "can't thank you enough. You don't know what Pimlico can be for a fellow!"
As the days passed Mr. Nix was more and more delighted with the arrangement. Mrs. Nix had a way of going to bed early and Mr. Nix and Harry would sit up talking. Mr. Nix looked forward to those evenings. He had, he discovered, been wanting someone with whom he might talk, and clear his ideas a bit. Harry, although he was so young, had really thought very deeply. Mr. Nix, whose thinking was rather of an amateur kind, very quickly forgot the difference between their years. Harry and he talked as man to man. If anything, Harry was perhaps the older of the two....
Mr. Nix found that it helped him very much when Harry talked. He did not seem to be balancing so many balls in mid-air when Harry was sharing his difficulties.