"Has she changed much?"
"Well, these big women—she's got awfully fat—fine-looking still, of course, but she's too fat." Then, catching my eye inadvertently directed on his own not inconsiderable expanse of light waistcoat, he grinned good-naturedly. "Guess I'd better be careful how I throw stones around here," said he. "I'm living in a glass house myself."
"Did Muriel ask after any of us?"
"Oh, yes, wanted to know about everyone—even Ted Johns. I told her they'd found out that Huddesley put some drug in Ted's wine that night, so that it wasn't liquor that was the matter with him. I thought I'd save his reputation that much, if I could. Poor Ted, how he did waste his life! No man ever had better chances at the beginning, but he was his own worst enemy."
"You might say that of all of us."
"Yes, I suppose so. But we don't all drink like fish. Kind of sad about Teddy; he got some appointment in the commissariat when our troops went to Cuba, and died of the fever at Siboney in '98—you knew that? He ought never to have risked going to that climate; he couldn't have had any constitution left by that time."
I assented, and we paid Teddy's memory the tribute of a moment's silence; yet I dare say we were not thinking so much of him and his career, as of our own youth and the inevitable years.
"Well, this has been very pleasant, but I must go," he said presently and rose. "Next time I come West I'm going to bring my wife; I want her to meet everyone here—the old set, I mean. She's heard me talk about you so much. I wish we could meet a little oftener, but living so far apart—you know——"
Well, fuit Ilium! Fuimus Troes! J. B. will find both the old set and the old town changed greatly (for the better, no doubt) when he returns. The coming generation—nay, the generation that has already arrived, will not remember the look of things as they were in my time. As I was saying, they were tearing down the old Gwynne house the other day.