“Given Bartley Hubbard,—yes.”
“And given Marcia. Well,—I don't like being mixed up with other people's unhappiness, Ben. It's dangerous.”
“I don't like it either. But you can't very well keep out of people's unhappiness in this world.”
“No,” assented Olive, ruefully.
The talk fell, and Halleck attempted to read a newspaper, while Olive looked out of the window. She presently turned to him. “Did you ever fancy any resemblance between Mrs. Hubbard and the photograph of that girl we used to joke about,—your lost love?”
“Yes,” said Halleck.
“What's become of it,—the photograph? I can't find it any more; I wanted to show it to her one day.”
“I destroyed it. I burnt it the first evening after I had met Mrs. Hubbard. It seemed to me that it wasn't right to keep it.”
“Why, you don't think it was her photograph!”
“I think it was,” said Halleck. He took up his paper again, and read on till they left the cars.