“After all, I am a man,” he told himself. “I am as good as ever I was.”
Then he considered, and rightly, that it was not his own just estimate of himself which was to be taken into consideration in a case of this sort, but that of the people. He realized that a girl brought up as Charlotte Carroll had been might, knowing, as she must finally know, her own father to be little better than a common swindler, not even dream of the possibility of marrying a grocer. He had to pass his old office on his way home to dinner that noon, and he looked at it with more regret than he had ever done since leaving it. The school was out and the children were streaming along the street. The air was full of their chatter. Henry Edgecomb came up behind him with a good-morning. He looked worn and nervous. Anderson looked at him sharply after his greeting.
“What is the matter?” he asked.
“Nothing, only I am tired out,” Edgecomb replied, wearily. “Sometimes I envy you.”
“Don't,” said Anderson.
“I do. This friction with new souls and temperaments is wearing my old one thin. I would rather sell butter and cheese.”
“Rather do anything than desert the battle-field you have chosen, because you are beaten,” said Anderson, with sudden bitterness.
“Nonsense! You are not beaten.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You have simply taken up new weapons.”