"Why not, Reuben?"
She gave him her hand.
"That is kinder than I hoped to find you. But I see how changed you are. You are so happy that you can afford to be indulgent to a poor devil."
"Why have you made yourself a poor devil!"
"Why, why, why! Pooh! Why is anything as it is? Why are you what you are, after being what you were?"
It pained her to look at him. At length she discerned unmistakably the fatal stamp of degradation. When he came to her two years ago, his face was yet unbranded; now the darkening spirit declared itself. Even his clothing told the same tale, in spite of its being such as he had always worn.
"Where are you living?" she asked.
"Anywhere; nowhere. I have no home."
"Why don't you make one for yourself?"
"It's all very well for you to talk like that. Every one doesn't get a home so easily.—Does old Mallard make you a good husband?"