“You are white as death.”
“There's nothing the matter with me,” Barney half gasped. He turned and walked on, and his back still bent like a bow to Thomas Payne's eyes.
Thomas went on silently until they had passed a house just beyond. Then he stopped again. “Look here, Barney,” said he.
“Well,” said Barney. He stopped, but he did not turn or face Thomas. He only presented to him that curved, or semblance of a curved, back.
“I want to speak to you about Charlotte Barnard,” said Thomas Payne, abruptly. Barney waited without a word.
“I suppose you'll think it's none of my business, and in one way it isn't,” said Thomas, “but I am going to say it for her sake; I have made up my mind to. It seems to me it's time, if anybody cares anything about her. What are you treating Charlotte Barnard so for, Barnabas Thayer? It's time you gave an account to somebody, and you can give it to me.”
Barney did not answer.
“Speak, you miserable coward!” shouted Thomas Payne, with a sudden threatening motion of his right arm.
Then Barney turned, and Thomas started back at the sight of his face. “I can't help it,” he said.
“Can't help it, you—”