My friend and his wife were finishing a poor meal—rags of old mutton, the remainder cakes from breakfast eaten cold, and a starveling pot of coffee.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Pinkerton,” said I. “Sorry to inflict my presence where it cannot be desired; but there is a piece of business necessary to be discussed.”
“Pray do not consider me,” said Mamie, rising, and she sailed into the adjoining bedroom.
Jim watched her go and shook his head; he looked miserably old and ill.
“What is it now?” he asked.
“Perhaps you remember you answered none of my questions,” said I.
“Your questions?” faltered Jim.
“Even so, Jim; my questions,” I repeated. “I put questions as well as yourself; and however little I may have satisfied Mamie with my answers, I beg to remind you that you gave me none at all.”
“You mean about the bankruptcy?” asked Jim.