“I know better. George, you're frightening us all. Don't you suppose we can see that something is wrong with you? I have seen it ever since I came here to work. You are worrying your friends. You worry me. Give us a chance to help you. Give ME a chance. You owe me that. Tell me your trouble and I'll pull you out of it; see if I don't.”
My confidence was, of course, only pretence, but my earnestness had some effect. He looked at me wistfully, and shook his head.
“Nobody can pull me out,” he said. “You're a good fellow to want to help, but you can't. There ain't any trouble. I'm just nervous—”
“I know better. You're lying, George. Yes, you are; you're lying.”
“Humph! You're pretty plain spoken, Ros Paine. There ain't many people I'd take that from.”
“You'll take it from me, because you can't help it and because you know it is true. Come, George; come. You have been a friend to me; the only real friend I have had in years. I have been looking for a chance to get even for what you have done for me. Maybe here is the chance. Let me help you. I will.”
He was wavering; I could see it. But again he shook his head.
“Nobody can help me,” he said.
“George, for my sake—well, then, if not for my sake or your own, then for Nellie's, give me a chance. You aren't treating her right, George. You should think of her. You—”
“Stop! Damn you, Ros Paine! what right have you to—”