"Another link in this encircling chain of help!"
"Don't—don't make fun."
I could have cried when he said that. I hated myself for the sarcasm, but the motive was sincere enough—just anger with him for thinking so much of everybody except himself. I saw him as he was, pale and haggard and on the verge of a breakdown; needing, above all things, rest, and yet, by sheer perversity of fate, embarking upon this grandiloquent scheme for helping people who, if they needed help at all, were very well able to help themselves. It was more than absurd; it was monstrous. And when he said "Don't make fun," it was more even than monstrous; it was pitiable.
I told him contritely that I hadn't been making fun, and that all I wanted was for him to see my point of view. I had always been perfectly frank with him, and——
"Not always," he interrupted.
"What do you mean?"
He said quietly: "You weren't frank with me about the quarrel you had with Helen."
Ever since Severn had revealed the matter, I had been preparing for Terry mentioning it, but I hadn't guessed that he would save it up with such uncanny accuracy for the awkwardest moment of all.
"Why did you quarrel?" he persisted.
I said that the word 'quarrel' wasn't a very apt one; the whole thing had been more of a "tiff"—a minor sort of thing that ought to have been forgotten long before.