"Mr. Mosson? Oh, poor Mr. Mosson is not as bad as all that, Mr. Welbourne. Indeed, he is not without heart, after all. And I must confess that, far from his annoying me with his company, it was I who trespassed upon the poor man's leisure. I--I wanted to speak to him--on--on a matter of business, and he was most obliging--most accommodating----" "Accommodating? obliging? Good heavens! Miss Somers, do you know that to be accommodated by this rascally Jew spells ruin? Once in his toils, his victims rarely escape. Don't you know that Mosson is a most notorious usurer, is the too well-known Spider? I do most earnestly trust that he has not accommodated you to a large amount--and as a man of the world--which naturally no lady is expected to be--I warn you--I entreat you to allow me to be your banker--it happens that I have a good deal of capital lying idle for the moment--let me enable you to pay this man off at once, before the interest has accumulated. Give me this pleasure, I beseech you. I--I--require a small interest--one and a half per cent.----" "But indeed, dear Mr. Welbourne, you are quite mistaken. I have borrowed no money of anybody, really. I can't say how deeply I appreciate your kindness in offering this. No; the poor Spider only did me a--kindness--in the way of business; he lent me nothing at all, I assure you. Nor do I need money, thank you. I thank you many times." "Oh!" said the thin man, amazed beyond words and disappointed as well. "But I do," she added, seeing his bewilderment and distress, "I do need, we all need, at all events sometimes, kindness. And for yours I thank you most cordially." She offered her hand; he took it and bowed over it with such reverent courtesy as belongs to an earlier day than this decadent time of ours, but remained silent still, as if struggling with some deep feeling. And, when he again raised his head and relinquished her hand, she saw that he was flushed and agitated, and came to the conclusion that the poor gentleman in some far-off, foolish days of youth had probably been ensnared by some old-time Spider, who had drained his blood and left him to drag out a withered and blighted life. Hence possibly his celibate condition. "It--it is a great relief," he said, "a very great relief," and yet the relief he expressed was scarcely evident in his face, upon which the utmost dejection was traced, "to hear that you owe that hard, bad man nothing. May such a misfortune never befall you. And may you never need to borrow of anyone. Should you, however, be so unfortunate, I trust that I may be allowed the great privilege of accommodating you with whatever may be necessary. I know--of course," he added, "that I have no right--no claim--no--that is to say--I am but a casual acquaintance, after all. And yet--pardon my presumption in venturing to say so--I believe that you have no truer, no more devoted friend in the world than I am."