"So do I," he says, a little thoughtfully. "I am not much of a friend, am I? but—" (looking at me with that sincere and hearty tenderness which, as long as I am under its immediate influence, always disarms me) "my head was full of other things; and people drop out of one's life so; I had neither seen nor heard of her since—since she married."
("Since she was engaged to you," say I, mentally interlining this statement, "and threw you over because you were not rich enough! why cannot you be honest and say so?") but aloud I give utterance to nothing but a shrewish and disbelieving "Hm!"
A pause. I do not know what Roger is thinking of, but I am following out my own train of thought; the fruit of which is this observation, made with an air of reflection:
"Mr. Huntley is a very rich man, I suppose?"
Roger laughs.
"Rich! poor Huntley! that is the very last thing his worst enemy could accuse him of! why, he was obliged to run the constable two years ago."
"But I suppose," say I, slowly, "that he was better off—well off once—when she married him, for instance?"
"How did you know that?" he asks, a little surprised. "Who told you? Yes; at that time he was looked upon as quite a parti."
"Better off than you, I suppose?" say I, still speaking slowly, and reading the carpet. "I mean than you were then?"
Again he laughs.