If friends were false or friends were true.
And fared he well, or fared he ill,
Left but kind words to greet us still,
And modest humor’s gentlest play,
That bids no maiden turn away,
And many a cool, clear, ringing line,
Still heard through all those noisy years,
And wholesome as a wayside spring,
And sweet with smiles, or sad with tears.”
“That is really a nice bit of character-sketching,” said Carington, as he rose. “We must try the postponed plots some other time.”