He felt sorry for himself, neglected, aggrieved....
He went back to the bed, sat down upon it, and struck a match; and by the light of that match he read the opening lines of the letter. He struck match after match, and by their light he read to the end of it. And as his hot eyes took in the last words some of his old dignity came back to him—he saw that he was sitting in a tomfool’s masquerading rags reading the generous deed of gift of one who refused to be a clog upon him to whom she had intended only to be an honour and a delight, who asked nothing of him, who made no complaint, who simply wished that he should be free, who would not even embarrass him with the initiative of her dismissal—who was gone!
And in the darkness he seemed to feel cold hands grope towards him and clasp icy fingers about his feet; and a whisper spoke in his ear: “Thou art alone.”
CHAPTER LXVIII
Wherein it is seen that a Man is More or Less Responsible for his Father
Noll, arriving on Horace’s landing, found Babette outside the door; and she was sobbing.
“What! Babette?” said he—“and crying?”
Babette brushed her fingers across her eyes: