“Nothing is the matter, I tell you. Let go of my arm, Ros. What do you mean by holding on to me like this?” “What do YOU mean, George? What does THAT mean?” I pointed to the drawer. He looked and, with a sudden effort, jerked his arm free and closed the drawer. “That?” with a forced laugh. “Oh, that's nothing. It was late and I was alone here, so--” “I know better. George, you're frightening us all. Don't you suppose we can see that something is wrong with you? I have seen it ever since I came here to work. You are worrying your friends. You worry me. Give us a chance to help you. Give ME a chance. You owe me that. Tell me your trouble and I'll pull you out of it; see if I don't.” My confidence was, of course, only pretence, but my earnestness had some effect. He looked at me wistfully, and shook his head. “Nobody can pull me out,” he said. “You're a good fellow to want to help, but you can't. There ain't any trouble. I'm just nervous--” “I know better. You're lying, George. Yes, you are; you're lying.” “Humph! You're pretty plain spoken, Ros Paine. There ain't many people I'd take that from.” “You'll take it from me, because you can't help it and because you know it is true. Come, George; come. You have been a friend to me; the only real friend I have had in years. I have been looking for a chance to get even for what you have done for me. Maybe here is the chance. Let me help you. I will.” He was wavering; I could see it. But again he shook his head. “Nobody can help me,” he said. “George, for my sake--well, then, if not for my sake or your own, then for Nellie's, give me a chance. You aren't treating her right, George. You should think of her. You--” “Stop! Damn you, Ros Paine! what right have you to--” “The right of a friend, her friend and yours. You're frightening the poor girl to death. She is beginning to be afraid you don't care for her.” “I? I don't care for HER? I don't--Oh, my God!” To my utter amazement he began to laugh. And then, all at once, his laughter ceased, he swayed, choked, and, suddenly collapsing in the chair, dropped his head upon his arms on the table and sobbed, sobs that shook him from head to heel. For one strong, healthy, normal man to see another cry is a disconcerting and uncomfortable experience. Masculine tears do not flow easily and poor George, on the verge of hysterics, was a pitiful and distressing spectacle. I was almost as completely disorganized as he. I felt ashamed for him and ashamed of myself for having seen him in such a condition. I wanted desperately to help him and I did not know what to do, so beyond patting him on the back and begging him repeatedly to brace up and not behave like that, I did nothing. At last his sobs ceased and he was silent. I had risen from my chair and now I stood there with a hand on his shoulder; the ticking of the ancient eight-sided clock on the wall sounded loud in the room. Suddenly he sat up and threw off my hand.