The man came in. The page shut the door quickly behind him, to conceal the figure of rags not often seen in that palatial place.
It was Alfred the Broken; strange to say, though it was less than a week since he had received that gift of golden sovereigns, the appearance of the man was as seedy as ever; his hat—a ridiculously tall silk hat with a limp brim—can anything look more forlorn?—his coat with ragged wrists; his boots parting from the soles; a ragged and decayed person, more ragged, more decayed, than before.
"Well?" the lady's voice was not encouraging. "You came here last week with the rest of them."
"I did, Alice—I did."
"You had champagne with the rest; you heard what my husband had to say: when the rest were gone, he gave you money. What have you done with that money? What do you want now?"
"I want to have a quiet talk with you."
The man had that sketchy irresolute face which foretells, in certain levels of life, social wreck. Not an evil face, exactly—the man with the evil face very often gets on in life—but with a weak face. You may see such a face any day in a police-court. First, it is a charge connected with the employer's accounts, then it is generally a charge of petty robbery. The last case I saw myself was one of boots snatched from an open counter. Between the first charge and the second there is a dreadful change in the matter of clothes; but there is never any change in face. As for Alfred Pennefather, one could understand that he had once been the gay and dashing Alf among his pals; that he had heard the midnight chimes ring; that he knew by experience the attractions of the public billiard-room, and the joys of pool; that he read the sporting papers; that he put a "bit" on his fancy; that whatever line of life he might attempt, therein he would fail; and that repeated failures would place him outside the forgiveness of his friends. For repeated misfortunes, as well as repeated follies, we can never forgive.
"You can talk," said his cousin. "This—young lady"—she was going to say "cousin of yours"—"does not count. Go on."
"I hoped, the other day, Alice, to find you alone. In that crowd of greedy impudent beggars and flatterers, I could not. I assure you I was ashamed of being in such company. As for Cousin Charles, if it had not been for you——"