'Some undone widow sits upon my arm,
And takes away the use o't; and my sword,
Glued to my scabbard with wronged orphans' tears,
Will not be drawn.'
Kean, sir, Kean——" He sank into his chair, and burst into tears.
This paroxysm restored him to some degree of recollection. When it passed away, Sinson drew his chair near him, and laid his hand on his arm. The spendthrift shrank from the touch. Michael quietly took out his purse, and allowed some pieces of gold to roll on the table.
"Mr. Everope," said he, in the oiliest tones possible, "I ask your pardon for my impertinent intrusion. It was meant all in good will. I was sorry to see the scurvy tricks fortune played you to-night. I came to ask if this petty sum would be any accommodation."
"Sir," Everope answered, while his fingers twitched convulsively, "I do not take such accommodation from strangers."
"We need not be strangers," said Sinson. "And if you are so delicate, you can give me your note of hand. I assure you I do not want the trifle."
Everope looked about the room.
"By the way," continued the tempter, "there's a fellow in the Temple called Morton. Pupil of a Mr. Travers. Know him?"
"I may have seen him at Travers's," the spendthrift answered, sullenly.
"I wish you could find out who he is," Sinson said, "and what he's doing. I have a sort of interest in him."