She stood before him, a slender, fair-haired girl in a green smock. He had known her years ago in Havana, in the days of her father’s prosperity; and he had found her again here, a lonely, plucky little exile, earning her own bread. No one quite like her, he thought—no one else with eyes so clear and candid, with so generous and sweet a smile; but she was twenty-two and he was forty, and he hadn’t fifty dollars to his name.
“Yes, I’m going,” he said. “I don’t fit in here, you know, Betty.”
“But—I thought you were going to get a job and stay here.”
“Well,” Charles told her, “I’ve only had one job offered me, and it doesn’t suit me; so I’m going down to Nicaragua.”
“That’s quite a long way, isn’t it?” she said casually.
“Yes, it is,” replied Charles.
They were both silent for a time. The rain was rattling against the window. The room was filled with the spicy fragrance of the carnations.
“I—I thought you’d stay here,” the girl said.
He knew well enough that she was crying, but he took care not to look at her.
“No,” he said gravely. “I don’t fit in here. I’m a derelict, and a derelict can be a danger to navigation. I’ve known some pretty good craft wrecked that way.” He was talking half to himself. When she looked at him in troubled surprise, he smiled cheerfully. “So I’ve come to say good-by, Betty,” he ended.