A Counterfeit Presentment; and, The Parlour Car

by William Dean Howells

Cummings, with a laugh.—"You make it hard to treat you seriously, Bartlett. What do you want me to do? Do you want me to go to Miss Wyatt and explain your case to her?"

Bartlett, angrily.—"No!"

Cummings.—"Perhaps to Mrs. Wyatt?"

Bartlett, infuriate.—"No!"

Cummings.—"To the General?"

Bartlett, with sudden quiet.—"You had better go away from here, Cummings—while you can."

Cummings.—"I see you don't wish me to do anything, and you're quite right. Nobody can do anything but yourself."

Bartlett.—"And what would you advise me to do?"

Cummings.—"I've told you that I would have it out. You can't make matters worse. You can't go on in this way indefinitely. It's just possible that you might find yourself mistaken,—that Miss Wyatt cares for you in your own proper identity."