Fenton stood leaning against the mantel-piece, desperately sullen, with a look of vicious confusion. “It is only I who have anything to be ashamed of,” he said at last, bitterly, with an effort. “My poverty!”
Roger smiled graciously. “Honest poverty is never shameful!”
Fenton gave him an insolent stare. “Honest poverty! You know a great deal about it.”
“Don’t appeal to poor little Nora, man, for her savings,” Roger went on. “Come to me.”
“You are unjust,” said Nora. “He didn’t appeal to me. I appealed to him. I guessed his poverty. He has only twenty dollars in the world.”
“O you poor little fool!” roared Fenton’s eyes. Roger was delighted. At a single stroke he might redeem his incivility and reinstate himself in Nora’s affections. He took out his pocket-book. “Let me help you. It was very stupid of me not to have guessed your embarrassment.” And he counted out a dozen notes.
Nora stepped to her cousin’s side and passed her hand through his arm. “Don’t be proud,” she murmured caressingly.
Roger’s notes were new and crisp. Fenton looked hard at the opposite wall, but, explain it who can, he read their successive figures,—a fifty, four twenties, six tens. He could have howled.
“Come, don’t be proud,” repeated Roger, holding out this little bundle of wealth.
Two great passionate tears welled into the young man’s eyes. The sight of Roger’s sturdy sleekness, of the comfortable twinkle of patronage in his eye, was too much for him. “I shall not give you a chance to be proud,” he said. “Take care! Your papers may go into the fire.”