"Friend!" exclaimed Mr. Chichester, laughing again, "friend, Ronald?
Nay, let us rather say your guardian angel in cords and Hessians."
"Since you condescend to mention my boots, sir," said Barnabas growing polite, "may I humbly beg you to notice that, in spite of their polish and tassels, they are as strong, as serviceable for kicking purposes as those I wore when we last—sat at table together."
Mr. Chichester's iron self-control wavered for a moment, his brows twitched together, and he turned upon Barnabas with threatening gesture but, reading the purpose in the calm eye and smiling lip of Barnabas, he restrained himself; yet seeming aware of the glowing mark upon his cheek, he turned suddenly and, coming to the dingy casement, stood with his back to the room, staring down into the dingy street. Then Barnabas leaned forward and laid his hand upon Barrymaine's, and it so happened it was the hand that yet held the slopping wineglass.
"Think—think!" said Barnabas earnestly, "once you are free of Gaunt, life will begin afresh for you, you can hold up your head again—"
"Though never in London, Ronald, I fear," added Mr. Chichester over his shoulder.
"Once free of Gaunt, you may attain to higher things than you ever did," said Barnabas.
"Unless the dead past should happen to come to life again, and find a voice some day," added Mr. Chichester over his shoulder.
"No, no!" said Barnabas, feeling the quiver of the fingers within his own, "I tell you it would mean a new beginning—a new life—a new ending for you—"
"And for Cleone!" added Mr. Chichester over his shoulder, "our young, disinterested Good Samaritan knows she is too proud to permit a stranger to shoulder her brother's responsibilities—"
"Proud, eh?" cried Barrymaine, leaping up in sudden boyish passion, "well, am I not proud? Did you ever know me anything else—did you?"