FALDER. I'm not allowed to leave the country.
COKESON. Oh! ye…es—ticket-of-leave? You aren't looking the thing.
FALDER. I've slept in the Park three nights this week. The dawns aren't all poetry there. But meeting her—I feel a different man this morning. I've often thought the being fond of hers the best thing about me; it's sacred, somehow—and yet it did for me. That's queer, isn't it?
COKESON. I'm sure we're all very sorry for you.
FALDER. That's what I've found, Mr. Cokeson. Awfully sorry for me. [With quiet bitterness] But it doesn't do to associate with criminals!
COKESON. Come, come, it's no use calling yourself names. That never did a man any good. Put a face on it.
FALDER. It's easy enough to put a face on it, sir, when you're independent. Try it when you're down like me. They talk about giving you your deserts. Well, I think I've had just a bit over.
COKESON. [Eyeing him askance over his spectacles] I hope they haven't made a Socialist of you.
FALDER is suddenly still, as if brooding over his past self; he
utters a peculiar laugh.
COKESON. You must give them credit for the best intentions. Really you must. Nobody wishes you harm, I'm sure.