"But he is lonely and unhappy," I protested.
"So are lots of people," she snapped. "I have been lonely for twenty years, and I get stouter every day."
"His ribs are like knife blades," I observed.
"He was always thin. I have not seen him since I was a girl, but I have followed his career. I knew he would make a name for himself. He was always dabbling in some mess—ruined his mother's bed-quilts—and wore badly-fitting clothes. It's strange you should meet him," she finished musingly.
"Would you like his address?" I asked quietly.
"No, I wouldn't, thanks, but—I shouldn't mind meeting him here some day. It would be pleasant to have a chat about old times."
"Rather dangerous, I should say."
"You always were an impertinent child," she said as she stooped to kiss me.
The love affairs of my friends are multiplying, I thought, when she had gone—Dr. Renton's and now Nanty's.