"Whenever you are ready."
"I suppose you have friends to whom you will go for Christmas?"
"Not a friend."
"Oh, perhaps we might be together—all three?"
"I'll think of something pleasant for us to do, if you'll let me."
"How good you are! Then, till this evening. It will seem long till then."
They shook hands once more. She had taken off her glove now, and her palm left on his a reminiscence of Peau d'Espagne. He did not know what the scent was, but it smelled rich and artificial, and he disliked to associate it with his new friend. "But probably it's her mother's, and she didn't choose it herself," he thought. "Well—I have a new interest in life now. I expect this is the best thing that's happened to me for a long time."
As he walked back to his hotel, his head was full of plans for the girl's transient pleasure and lasting benefit. "Poor lonely child," he thought. "And what a mother! She ought not to be left with a person like that. She ought to marry. It would be a good deed to take her away from such an influence. So young, and so ingenuous as she is still, in spite of the surroundings she must have known, she is capable of becoming a noble woman. Perhaps, if she turns out to be really as sweet and gentle as she seems—"
The sentence broke off unfinished, in his mind, and ended with a great sigh.
There could be only second best, and third best things in life for him now, since love was over, and it would be impossible for him to care for an angel from heaven, who had not the face and the dear ways of the girl he had lost. But second best things might be better than no good things at all, if only one made up one's mind to accept them thankfully. And it was a shame to waste so much money on himself, when there were soft-eyed, innocent girls in the world who ought to be sheltered and protected from harm.