In a minute she came back.
“Mrs. Leslie will see you, sir.”
The door opened.
Eric Darrell found himself under the roof of Joe Leslie’s little “bird’s nest,” as the latter was fond of styling it.
Everything around him showed evidences of good taste and plenty of money.
Poor bachelor Eric heaved a sigh as he noted the comfortable air of the cozy house.
“What a fool,” he muttered, “but some men never know when they’re well off. With a wife and a home like his, Joe ought to be the happiest man in New York. Seems to me these things generally go to the ones least capable of appreciating them.”
By this time the philosopher, in following the servant along the hall, came to the open library door, through which she motioned him to enter.
He did so.
Here his old bachelor soul was worse rattled than ever—such a dream of bliss may have come to him over his post-prandial cigar, but he had never believed it could be realized to a human being here below.