Towards the end of the year he went down to the Midlands to stay with his friend Perry Clinton. They had not met for several years, and Clinton, who had married in the interval, also thought him changed.
"Is it prosperity or adversity that has made you so tame, dear fellow?" he asked him, as they sat together over dessert one night.
"Adversity," said Merefleet, smiling faintly. "I'm getting old, Perry; and there's no one to take care of me. And I find that money is vanity."
Clinton understood.
"Better go round the world," he said. "That's the best cure for that."
But Merefleet shook his head.
"It's my own fault," he said presently. "I've chucked away my life to the gold-demon. And now there is nothing left to me. You were wise in your generation. You may thank your stars, Perry, that when I wanted you to join me, you had the sense to refuse. When I heard you were married I called you a fool. But—I know better now."
He paused. He had been speaking with a force that was almost passionate. When he continued his tone had changed.
"That is why you find me a trifle less surly than I used to be," he said. "I used to hate my fellow-creatures. And now I would give all my money in exchange for a few disinterested friends. I'm sick of my lonely life. But for all that, I shall live and die alone."
"You make too much of it," said Clinton.