“What am I, after all, Richard?” he said to his friend, as Stoughton entered the room and quietly seated himself at the opposite side of the fireplace. “A wreck that has been patched up; a failure, not quite hopeless; a man who has been condemned by the world, with a recommendation to mercy.”
“I don’t like your mood, John,” remarked Richard, lighting a cigarette, and puffing the smoke slowly into the air. “No game is lost until the hand is played out. I think you stand to win, if you don’t lose your pluck. I had good news for you to-day.”
“No? What was it?” asked Fenton, with no great show of interest.
“When I reached the office this morning,” continued Richard, unawed by his friend’s coldness, “I found two letters and a bundle on my desk.”
“Yes?”
“One of the letters was from the dark-eyed girl I saw at La Ria’s.”
Fenton smiled, but said nothing.
“I tore it up, John. I suppose you will call me very young—your pet accusation.”
“Hardly, my boy, hardly. You have simply proved that you are wiser in the morning than you are at night.”
“Well, most men are, I suppose. There is nothing eccentric or meritorious in that. And so much for ‘Gorgonzola.’ Let her rest in peace. But the other letter, John, was of more importance. It will interest you.”