They were old friends and my heart beat for them. All through the dinner as Meadows—he was their butler—poured out the wine with each course, I could feel that some great trouble was impending over my friends.
After Mrs. Ashcroft-Fowler had risen and left us, and we were alone over our port wine, I drew my chair near to Fowler's and I said, "My dear Fowler, I'm an old friend and you'll excuse me if I seem to be taking a liberty. But I can see that you and your wife are in trouble."
"Yes," he said very sadly and quietly, "we are."
"Excuse me," I said. "Tell me—for it makes a thing easier if one talks about it—is it anything about Meadows?"
"Yes," he said, "it is about Meadows."
There was silence for a moment, but I knew already what Fowler was going to say. I could feel it coming.
"Meadows," he said presently, constraining himself to speak with as little emotion as possible, "is leaving us."
"Poor old chap!" I said, taking his hand.
"It's hard, isn't it?" he said. "Franklin left last winter—no fault of ours; we did everything we could —and now Meadows."
There was almost a sob in his voice.