And thus it is that the threads of our story once more unite. Again the figure of a man is pacing up and down the platform, awaiting the incoming train and, at last it comes thundering in and makes a brief halt, Norman’s eyes rest upon the stalwart, manly figure of the companion of his earlier days, and the clasp of the hand that follows is almost painful. But even in that first quick meeting, when joy lights up the eyes of both, Norman sees the change in his old-time friend; sees the lines that the flight of years alone has not engraven on the handsome face.
“What is it Owen? There is that in your face which tells me all is not well. Have you been sick?”
“Heart-sick—yes! to the extent that life sometimes seems but a burden?”
“Why should a man of almost unlimited wealth, such as you possess, speak in such a strain?”
“Why, indeed! You speak as though wealth could buy happiness.”
“And can it not? Do you not know what untold, what inconceivable misery could be turned to joy with the assistance of wealth?”
“In thousands of cases, yes. In my own instance, no! Wealth cannot heal a breaking heart, cannot buy the happiness which has fled.”
“I believe I possess a panacea for an evil such as yours. The society of sweet women will restore you to life and love.”
“Don’t speak of woman and love to me. I have done with em!” Norman smiled.
“O, I have touched the right cord, have I? But that is a bold assertion which you have just made—that you have done with women forever. Yet I assert that you must—you must and you will be won.”