2
Bellair watched for the turn on the part of Broadwell that would reveal the character of his message, for he did not believe the matter of the copy for the printer. The chill was thick between them, yet Bellair managed to say:
“I’m not here for reprisal or trouble-making. It’s rather a novelty to be innocent, yet charged with a thing; certainly one sees a look from the world that could come no other way. I want to see you again—soon. I’ve got a story to tell you. It was a big thing to me. We used to have things in common. I’d like to tell you the story and see how it strikes you——”
“Good. I’m to spare——”
“Suppose you come here to lunch to-morrow——”
“No, you come with me.”
“I’d prefer it the other way,” Bellair declared. “It’s my story you are to listen to.”
As they parted, there was just a trace of the old Broadwell, that left Bellair with a feeling of kindness.
“I’m interested to hear that story,” the advertising-man said. “It did something to you apparently. Pulled you down a lot—but that’s not all. I can’t make it out exactly—but you’ve got something, Bellair.”
That was a long afternoon.... He had been gone less than six months; and yet was as much a stranger, as a young man coming in from the West for the first time. The hours dragged. The City did not awe him, but so much of it struck him in places tender. He could give and give; there seemed no other way, no other thing to do. He sat on a bench in Union Square, and talked with an old man who needed money so badly that Bellair reflected for some time the best way to bestow it without shock. The old fellow looked so near gone, that one feared his heart would break under any undue pressure of excitement.