"Well, I suppose the first thing to do is to make the lady's acquaintance. I know Rose, slightly, and a call will no doubt be considered neighbourly. And if I can do anything for the child, you may depend on me to do it."
"You're a brick, Jim!" In the midst of his relief Barry remembered the hour and rose hastily. "Well, I must be off, or the house will be shut up. Good-night, old chap. I'm no end obliged to you. I knew you would help, if anyone would."
He had turned towards the door when a thought struck him and he turned back rather awkwardly.
"I say, Jim"—he was looking down at the floor as he spoke—"I hadn't forgotten, but I didn't like to say much. How ... how is—she?"
"My wife, you mean?" Herrick's smile was bitter. "She is pretty well, I believe. They say her health has improved lately."
"I'm glad. And—forgive me if I'm tactless, Jim, but when do you expect her back?"
"When does she come out?" All the youth had died away from his face, leaving it desperately tired and sad. "Some time in the autumn, October, I believe. The time isn't really up quite so soon, but there's some remission for good conduct, I understand, which shortens the sentence."
"Have you seen her lately?"
"No. She refused to see me last time, and I shall not trouble her again."
"I see." Barry fidgeted from one foot to the other, then made a sudden grab at his friend's hand. "Well, good-bye, Jim. Ever so many thanks for promising to help the kid. You can do lots for her if you will, and I do want the marriage to be a success."