"Sir, I hope I have not disturbed you; but I couldn't be easy till I'd cordially and heartily thanked you." Mr. Barradine had come in, and Dale fired off his brief set speeches. But instinct almost immediately told him that once more Mavis had been right and he wrong. Mr. Barradine was not expecting or desiring a personal call.
"Not worth mentioning. Nothing at all." He said these things courteously, but there was a coldness in his tone that quite froze the visitor. He seemed to be saying really: "Now look here, I have had quite enough bother about you; and please don't let me have any more of it."
"Then, sir, I thank you--and--er--that's all."
"Very glad if--" Mr. Barradine made the same gesture that Dale had seen a few hours ago: a wave of the right hand. But to Dale it seemed that it was different now, that it indicated languor and haughtiness; indeed, it seemed that the whole man was different. Could this be the advocate who had spoken up so freely for a friend in trouble? All the majesty and the force, as well as the generous friendliness, had disappeared. The face, the voice, the whole bearing belonged to another man. The tired eyes had not a spark of fire in them; those puffy bags of loose flesh, that hung between the outer corners of the cheekbones and the thin birdlike nose, were so ugly as to be disfiguring; the mouth, instead of looking soft and kind, although proud, now appeared to close in the unbending lines of a very obdurate self-esteem. This new aspect of his patron made Dale stammer uncomfortably; and he felt something akin to humiliation in lieu of the fine glow of gratitude with which he had come hurrying from the Euston Road.
"Then my duty--and my thanks--and I'll say good afternoon, sir."
He had pulled himself together and spoken these last words ringingly, and now grasping Mr. Barradine's hand he gave it a mercilessly severe squeeze.
"Damnation!" Under the horny grip, Mr. Barradine emitted a squeal of pain. "Confound it--my good fellow--why the deuce can't you be careful what you're doing?"
Mr. Barradine, very angry, was ruefully examining his hand; and Dale, apologizing profusely, stared at it too. It was limp in texture, yellowish white of color, with bluish swollen veins, some darkish brown patches here and there, and slight glistening protuberances at the knuckle joints-an old man's hand, so feeble that it could not bear the least pressure, and yet decorated with a young man's fopperies. Dale noticed the three rings on the little finger-one of gold, one of silver, one of black metal, each with tiny colored gems in it--and while heartily ashamed of his rustic violence, he felt a secret contempt for its victim.