Armour smiled in rather a ghastly way, and murmured some unintelligible reply.
“By our ancient friendship,” said Camperdown in persuasive accents, “tell me. If you are in trouble, let me share it,” and uneasily getting up as if he could not remain on his seat, he tramped about the office, not noisily, but very gently, and pushing the chairs aside with his foot. “Stanton,” coming and bending over the immovable figure at the table, “I have liked very few men, of them you most of all. When we were lads, I loved you like a girl. I never told you, but the ancient liking has not entirely passed away. I would help you if I could,” and the pent-up emotion of years found expression in a movement that from Brian Camperdown was a tender caress; he stooped down and laid his arm across his friend’s shoulder.
Something of Armour’s immobility gave way. A slight flush rose to his face, and he said huskily: “I am grateful to you, but there is nothing to tell. My business oppresses me.”
“Is that all?” asked Camperdown keenly. “You know it is not. You’re eaten up by some worry; everybody knows it.”
Armour pushed back his chair, and rose suddenly. “Is it as bad as that?” he said hastily. “Am I remarked upon?”
“We don’t see ourselves as others see us. People know that you’re not in a normal condition. Of course they discuss you. Who are you that the rest of the world should be gossiped about and you go scot free? Now you’ll try to mend, won’t you? Throw your burden into the sea. Tell some woman about it, if you won’t trust me. If she loves you, you’ll be supremely happy; if she doesn’t, you’ll be supremely miserable, which is the next best thing. Take that little French girl into your heart, Stanton. Next to Stargarde she comes, sweet and true and gentle, and yet full of fire; just the right qualities for you.”
Armour looked at him in undisguised dismay. “This is wildness; in the name of mercy stop. Have you been propounding this fine scheme to her?”
“Yes; we discuss it often,” said Camperdown, throwing sentiment to the winds and coming back to his accustomed state of irritability; “she’s no more in favor of it than you are; says she had as soon wed a mummy as you. Also that you’ve been detestable to her. Good luck to you in your wooing,” and with a look of unqualified disapprobation he strode to the door, slammed it behind him, and hurried through the streets to his own office, where a formidable array of patients restlessly awaited him.
Left alone Armour glanced about him in an impatient way. As if with mischievous finger the words had been traced on the wall, he saw them staring at him whichever way he turned, “Take the little French girl into your heart; take the little French girl into your heart.” The very air seemed to be ringing with the foolish speech.
“I wish that Camperdown would let me alone,” he muttered irritably. “I shall never marry; if I ever did, she is the last woman in the world that I could or would choose. If he knew everything he would not be so ready with his advice.” Then his face softened. “I wonder what she would say if she could know of this conversation. I have never satisfied myself about that suspicion. I will do so to-day,” and with the air of a man well used to mastering his emotions he set his book up before him again, and was soon busy with the solution of some financial problems in which he had been interrupted by the entrance of his friend.