Harold was silent; he seemed thoughtful; a little sigh escaped him. "Can I, Florence?" he finally said. "You know me better than I know myself. What can I see?"
"A successful career."
"Is that all?"
"No; friends."
"Of what use are they?"
"Dr. Johnson called friendship 'the cordial drop that makes the nauseous draught of life go down'."
"He was wrong."
"Why, Harold! you forget that I am your friend."
"No, Florence, I don't; I wish I could."
"How strangely you act to-night," she replied in puzzled tones. "I don't understand you."