Matthew laughed, but there was a tear for Rosina in the laughter.
“By-the-way,” he said, suddenly, “did old Coble leave her any money?”
“Yes—but a few thousand dollars was all there was when his estate was wound up. He couldn’t have expected to crack up, for he made no provision whatever for Aunt Clara.”
“Then Rosina is keeping her?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“How does she reconcile that with her economy?” he thought, with an added throb of tenderness. The kettle sang on; the cat purred; he had a flash of hope—he might grow to love her yet. But he thought of Eleanor Wyndwood, and the hope died. They would have been on their way now to their restaurant—sitting close together, driving through the flashing streets. Oh, was he not mad to be here?
“What are you doing all alone?” he thought. “My love, my first love and my last, you who believed in me, who were ready to sacrifice yourself to me?”
“Did you go to see Ruth Hailey?” asked Billy, suddenly.
Eleanor’s face vanished. He put his hand to his breast-pocket, and drew out the portrait with the sweet, shy eyes.
“Yes,” he said, tremulously, “and she gave me this.”