Carman turned away and knitted his brows.
“At the fair-grounds,” he said presently, as though talking more to himself than to Marley. “The fair-grounds, h-m. Yes, I do remember—”
Marley’s heart stirred with a little hope.
“I do remember seeing you there, and talking to you. But I don’t remember making you any promises. Did you ask me?”
“No; Mr. Powell did that.”
“And what did I say?”
“Well,” Marley answered, “I can’t recall your exact words, but I got the impression, and so did Mr. Powell, I’m sure, that it was all right, I—I counted on it.”
“Well, say, Glenn,” he said; “I’m awfully sorry, honest I am. I remember now, come to think of it, that Wade did say something like that, and maybe I said something to lead you to think I’d do it; I don’t say I didn’t—I don’t just remember. But I reckon you’ve banked more on what Wade told you than on what I did. Course, I reckon I didn’t turn you down—a feller never does that in a campaign, you know. But Wade takes a lot o’ things for granted in this life.”
He smiled indulgently, as if Powell’s weaknesses were commonly known and understood.
“I reckon you relied too much on what Wade told you,” Carman went on. His right eye was fixed on Marley, but Marley did not return the look. He had turned half-way round and thrown his arm over the back of his chair. He looked out the window, his eyes vacant and sad. He was thinking of Lavinia, of their hopes and plans, of the little home that had become almost a reality to them; the trees in the Court-House yard held their gaunt limbs helplessly up against the cold December day; the ugly clouds were hurrying desperately across the sky; he thought of the little law office across the street, with the dusty law books lying on the table, and the hopelessness of it all overwhelmed him. But there beside him Carman still was speaking: