He began to tell her what had happened, and he did not spare himself in the statement of the case. “There you have the whole affair now. And a very pretty affair it is. But, I declare,” he concluded, “I can't see that any one is to blame for it.” “No one, David?” “Well, Adam, finally, of course. Or Eve. Or the Serpent,” replied the desperate man. Seeing him at this reckless pass, his wife forebore reproach, and asked, “What are you going to do?” “I am going around there in the morning to tell Mrs. Harmon all about Barker.” “She will send him away instantly.” “I dare say.” “And what will the poor thing do?” “Goodness knows.” “I'm afraid Badness knows. It will drive him to despair.” “Well, perhaps not--perhaps not,” sighed the minister. “At any rate, we must not _let_ him be driven to despair. You must help me, Lucy.” “Of course.” Mrs. Sewell was a good woman, and she liked to make her husband feel it keenly. “I knew that it must come to that,” she said. “Of course, we must not let him be ruined. If Mrs. Harmon insists upon his going at once--as I've no doubt she will--you must bring him here, and we must keep him till he can find some other home.” She waited, and added, for a final stroke of merciless beneficence, “He can have Alfred's room, and Alf can take the front attic.” Sewell only sighed again. He knew she did not mean this. Barker went back to the St. Albans, and shrunk into as small space in the office as he could. He pulled a book before him and pretended to read, hiding the side of his face toward the door with the hand that supported his head. His hand was cold as ice, and it seemed to him as if his head were in a flame. Williams came and looked in at him once, and then went back to the stool which he occupied just outside the elevator-shaft when not running it. He whistled softly between his teeth, with intervals of respectful silence, and then went on whistling in absence of any whom it might offend.