"Of course, but—how can you afford to eat here? Didn't you say that your salary was twelve dollars a week?"

"I think I said so."

"You are spending at that rate for your dinners alone. I don't understand how you can do it."

"I am an old man, Albert. I can't live many years, and I think it sensible to get as much comfort out of life as possible for my few remaining years."

"Still——"

"I had a little money, you know, five hundred dollars, and I have managed to turn it to good account, so that I don't feel quite so cramped as when I was at Lakeville."

"The old man's been speculating!" thought Albert Marlowe, "and he has had a stroke of luck; but he's a fool to think he can live like a banker on the strength of that. Very likely his next venture will sweep away his small amount of capital. Well, if he comes to grief, he needn't apply to me. Henceforth I wash my hands of him and his affairs altogether."

"Of course it's your own lookout," he said, "but to me you seem recklessly extravagant."

"Because I come in here? Well, perhaps so. When I find I can't afford it, I'll go to a cheaper place. Have you seen Mary Barton lately?"

"Yes; she is well. By the way, what have you done with her boy?"