“No! for I doubt if Clayton has the wherewithal to buy his false courage!” chimed in another.
“I say, Reginald!” said a slim young fellow, buttonholing him and drawing him towards an open window, “I have heard that Emory is a married man. Is there any truth in the report?”
“Yes!” replied Gray; “but——he has lost his wife.”
“Oh! I beg pardon! You are great friends, are you not? He’s an awfully fine fellow, and all that. I did not ask from idle curiosity. My sister and myself are great admirers of his, and, somehow, I didn’t like to think of him as sailing under false colors.”
“All right, Maury; I understand, and if you’ll just step outside, on the balcony here, I’ll light a cigar and give you a little history.”
They took two chairs and made themselves comfortable.
“You see,” said Gray, leaning back and knocking the ashes from his cigar, and, as he did so, wondering how much he ought to tell, “you see, he was married four or five years ago to Cecile Davis, a cousin of Miss Gwinn. Everybody thought it a love match; but I always doubted it and wasn’t the least bit surprised when she ran away.”
“Left him!” cried Maury, starting forward. “Why, what was the woman made of to desert such a man as that?”
A shrug of the shoulders was Gray’s only reply, and he continued:
“Well, he has never seen her since. Not long ago he heard she was dead. I wouldn’t speak of the matter generally, Maury, for I really think it too delicate a subject to be discussed in clubs; don’t you agree with me?”