"Yes, I see that. Of course, I ought not to have asked."
"You ought not to need to ask," Thorndyke replied, with a smile; "you should put the facts together and reason from them yourself."
While we had been talking I had noticed Thorndyke glance at me inquisitively from time to time. Now, after an interval of silence, he asked suddenly:
"Is anything amiss, Berkeley? Are you worrying about your friends' affairs?"
"No, not particularly; though their prospects don't look very rosy."
"Perhaps they are not quite so bad as they look," said he. "But I am afraid something is troubling you. All your gay spirits seem to have evaporated." He paused for a few moments, and then added: "I don't want to intrude on your private affairs, but if I can help you by advice or otherwise, remember that we are old friends and that you are my academic offspring."
Instinctively, with a man's natural reticence, I began to mumble a half-articulate disclaimer; and then I stopped. After all, why should I not confide in him? He was a good man and a wise man, full of human sympathy, as I knew, though so cryptic and secretive in his professional capacity. And I wanted a friend badly just now.
"I am afraid," I began shyly, "it is not a matter that admits of much help, and it's hardly the sort of thing that I ought to worry you by talking about——"
"If it is enough to make you unhappy, my dear fellow, it is enough to merit serious consideration by your friend; so, if you don't mind telling me——"
"Of course I don't, sir!" I exclaimed.