“For of fortunes sharpe adversite,
The worst kind of infortune is this,—
A man that hath been in prosperite,
And it remember when it passed is.”
Chaucer.
Marjory Graham rose from her seat as Carleton entered the room, her hand outstretched in friendly greeting. “I’m glad you came out, Jack,” she said, “it’s seemed like a long time.”
Carleton, as he seated himself, unconsciously kept his eyes fixed on the girl’s face, thinking to himself that he had never seen her looking prettier, or more charming. He gave a nod of assent. “It has been a long time,” he answered, “but you know how much has happened. I should have come before, but I thought I’d wait until things were settled first.”
The girl looked at him, with sympathy in her glance. “I was so sorry, Jack,” she said, “about your father.”
He nodded again. “I know you were, Marjory,” he answered, “you were always kind to him, and he valued your friendship, I know. He used to speak to me about you, many a time. And I never dreamed—he seemed so well—it’s so hard for me to realize, even now, that we’ll never see him again.”
There followed a moment’s silence. And then the girl spoke once more. “And I’m sorry, Jack, about all the rest, too.”
His answering glance was grateful enough, yet somehow he appeared to wince a little at her words. “You needn’t be, Marjory,” he said, “because I don’t deserve it. I’ve made a fool of myself. Your father told you everything, I suppose.”
“Yes, Jack, he told me,” she answered, “I don’t think he liked doing it—he hates talking about other people’s business—but he said you asked him to.”
“Yes, I wanted him to,” Carleton assented. “I wanted you to know all about it, before I came out. I thought I’d make a clean breast of things. I’ve paid my debts, thank Heaven, but I’m left practically without a cent; I’m no better than a beggar. And I’m living in a lodging-house, down-town. Quite a change, all right, from the Mayflower.”