“Down and out,” Ellsworth said. And stood, bent, in the twilight.
So he turned and came slowly to the large, old, half-empty house, and a sound of music floated to him, and a light shone through the curtained glass. He halted. He must not frighten her. He opened the door, trying for commonplace cheerfulness. But she saw. She was playing at her old tinkling piano; the music stopped.
“What is it, John?”
It was futile to lie to Margaret. “Just bothered over my job,” he said.
Her arm was about his neck. He drew her down beside him on a sofa, and like an unhappy child laid his head against her shoulder.
“Don’t bother, dearest,” she spoke.
“It’s not just that, Margaret,” he said then. “It’s everything. I’m down and out. I’ve kept you down with me. You might have been rich, happy—”
“I am happy,” she interrupted.
“You’re wonderful,” he said. “My best friend; my only friend now. I used to have a lot and they’re all gone. Except you, my darling, I haven’t a friend in the world.”
“John, don’t,” she begged. “It’s not our affair if we have friends. We’ve just got to live our lives as well as we can, and let the rest come or go.” Her eyes fell on the letter. “For you, John. It might be from a friend, this very letter. Read it, dear. It’s from New York. It might be good news.”