Being now in a thoroughly reckless mood, he went the pace rather hotly. Then, one evening, without any previous warning, I had a note from him. “Come round and see me on Thursday. It is my wedding eve.”
I went. He was once more “tidying up.” All his drawers were open, and on the table were piled packs of cards, betting books, and much written paper, as before, all in course of demolition.
I smiled; I could not help it, and, no way abashed, he laughed his usual hearty, honest laugh.
“I know,” he exclaimed gaily, “but this is not the same as the others.”
Then, laying his hand on my shoulder, and speaking with the sudden seriousness that comes so readily to shallow natures, he said, “God has heard my prayer, old friend. He knows I am weak. He has sent down an angel out of heaven to help me.”
He took her portrait from the mantelpiece and handed it me. It seemed to me the face of a hard, narrow woman, but, of course, he raved about her.
As he talked, there fluttered to the ground from the heap before him an old restaurant bill, and, stooping, he picked it up and held it in his hand, musing.
“Have you ever noticed how the scent of the champagne and the candles seems to cling to these things?” he said lightly, sniffing carelessly at it. “I wonder what’s become of her?”
“I think I wouldn’t think about her at all to-night,” I answered.
He loosened his hand, letting the paper fall into the fire.