«I hope none of your relatives—I hope you haven't sustained a loss?» ventured Mr. Donovan.
«Death has claimed,» said Miss Conway, hesitating — «not a relative, but one who—but I will not intrude my grief upon you, Mr. Donovan.»
«Intrude?» protested Mr. Donovan. «Why, say, Miss Conway, I'd be delighted, that is, I'd be sorry—I mean I'm sure nobody could sympathize with you truer than I would.»
Miss Conway smiled a little smile. And oh, it was sadder than her expression in repose.
«'Laugh, and the world laughs with you; weep, and they give you the laugh,'» she quoted. «I have learned that, Mr. Donovan. I have no friends or acquaintances in this city. But you have been kind to me. I appreciate it highly.»
He had passed her the pepper twice at the table.
«It's tough to be alone in New York—that's a cinch,» said Mr. Donovan. «But, say—whenever this little old town does loosen up and get friendly it goes the limit. Say you took a little stroll in the park, Miss Conway—don't you think it might chase away some of your mullygrubs? And if you'd allow me — »
«Thanks, Mr. Donovan. I'd be pleased to accept of your escort if you think the company of one whose heart is filled with gloom could be anyways agreeable to you.»
Through the open gates of the iron–railed, old, downtown park, where the elect once took the air, they strolled, and found a quiet bench.
There is this difference between the grief of youth and that of old age: youth's burden is lightened by as much of it as another shares; old age may give and give, but the sorrow remains the same.