“Why friendless? Tell me what it is that makes you so downhearted?” Her tones were well calculated to reassure him.
“I am suffering from the inevitable misery which, as a ghost, follows the erring,” he said, and his voice was hard.
“Tell me all about it, Mr. Frost, that I may be in sympathy with you.”
“Then I will tell you all,” raising a face that looked worn and worried. “There is nothing of sentiment in my misfortune; as rascally old Panurge used to put it, ‘I am troubled with a disease known as a plentiful lack of money.’”
“Why, Mr. Frost, I thought you were rich; the world takes it that way.”
“I did possess a fair competency until two weeks ago, but an unfortunate investment in Reading swept it away like thistledown in the wind. The friends to whom I could apply for aid are in the same boat. For one of them, I, very like the fool Antonio, have gone security for a thousand dollars. To-morrow that must be paid else I lose my pound of flesh, which, taken literally, means my studio, pictures, and, worst of all, my reputation.”
“And you call yourself a fool for helping a friend; I am surprised at that.”
“You are right. I shouldn’t feel that way, for he is noble beyond the common; his faults, such as they are, have been more hurtful to himself than to others.” Frost spoke magnanimously.
“Who is the friend?” she asked, so impulsively that it bore no trace of impertinence.
“Pardon me, but I would not mention his name; however, you know him quite well.”