"We are all mad, more or less, Talbot," rejoined Mr. Clendon, with the
flicker of a grim smile on his thin lips. "But this young girl--I have
taken her misery to heart. If you had seen her as I have seen her--but
you haven't, and I have to try to impress her case on you, enlist your
sympathies, as well as I can. She is a lady, not by birth, perhaps, but
by instinct and training. She has been well educated. That's been
against her, of course. It always is with persons in her position;
anyway, it makes her lot a still harder one."
"Well, well!" broke in the Marquess. "You want me to give her money. Of
course, you can have what you want, any sum; you have but to ask--Ask!
it is all yours; you have but to demand!--No, no, I don't mean to be
angry, brutal; but, surely, you can understand what I am feeling. How
much do you want?"
"Nothing," said Mr. Clendon, with another flickering smile. "My dear
Talbot, you don't understand. But I don't blame you; how should you? All
the same, we poor people have our little pride; the girl of whom I
speak--well, I found her starving in her miserable little room, because
she was too proud to descend a flight of steps to mine, to ask for the
bread for which she was dying."
The Marquess stared. "Is it possible that such cases can exist?"
"Oh, yes, my dear Talbot," responded Mr. Clendon, with grim irony.
"There are more persons die of starvation in London every day than the
Boards of Guardians wot of. The doctor calls them 'heart-failure' in his
certificate; and he is quite accurate. But let me tell you what I want
you to do. This girl has been a secretary; she has been advertising for
some similar post; any post, indeed."
He took out the paper and pointed to the advertisement. The Marquess
took the paper, passing his hand over his eyes, as if he were dazed, and
read the few lines which had cost Celia her last penny.
"Got it?" asked Mr. Clendon. "Well, now, I want you to write an answer
to it, Talbot, and offer her a situation."
Lord Sutcombe dropped into his chair, his head sunk in his hands.
"What kind of situation?" he asked, looking up. "Of course, I'll do
it--I feel, confused. Little wonder!--What kind of situation? I suppose
you have planned it all? I am trying to follow you, to interest myself;
but I can only think of you!"