George smiled. Brower hitched himself up on his pillow and put his finger into the book to keep the place. "He was a first-rate fellow —good all through and kind of capable; that is, he was worth a salary of eighteen hundred a year—or two thousand. He married a girl with two thousand a month. No head book-keeper, no cashier, no secretary could she let him be after that; no, Johnny must be his own master—except as regarded her. To-day he sort o' hangs on the outskirts of business, and picks up a little here and a little there—he has desk-room somewhere in the Clifton, I believe. He does the best he can to preserve his self-respect, but I don't see how he can pay the bills and the house-rent too."
"House-rent? They're building—I mean, she is."
"Yaugh!" cried Brower, with deep meaning.
"Atwater's doing the house for them—for her."
"Atwater?" Brower gave a second hitch to the pillow, and threw the book to the foot of the bed. "He's another. He's had a trip in the same boat."
"Why, he isn't married."
"I guess he is—just about as hard as any man ever was. But he has fought through gallantly—I'll say that for him."
"What's his story?"
"Begins in the same way. She was rich, too, and a high-flyer. He had education and family and his profession—and no money. He struggled up for ten years, and now—now he stands on his own legs; his wife has her own money for her clothes and amusements. He saw he had got to strike society, and he struck it—hard; he costs like smoke. But he snatched victory from defeat. It was a great act. Speaking of acts—who do you think I saw there in a stage-box to-night?"
"Who?"