“Yes, Harrison,” he answered gravely, leaning against the table with head slightly bent. “We are parted, and I fear that, after all, I have acted foolishly.”
“You will, no doubt, remember my advice on the day of your father’s death.”
“I do,” George answered, huskily. “At that time I fondly believed she loved me, and was prepared to sacrifice everything in order that she should be mine. But now—”
“Well?”
“Her letters have grown colder, and I have a distinct and painful belief that she loves me no longer, that she has, amid the mad whirl of gaiety on the Riviera, met some man who has the means to provide her with the pleasures to which she has been accustomed, and upon whom she looks with favour. Her letters now are little more than the formal correspondence of a friend. She has grown tired of waiting.”
“And are you surprised?” Harrison asked.
“I ought not to be, I suppose,” he said gloomily. “I can never hope to marry her.”
“Why despair?” the old solicitor exclaimed kindly. “You have youth, talent, and many influential friends, therefore there is no reason why your success at the Bar should not be as great as other men’s.”
“Or as small as most men’s,” he laughed bitterly. “No, Harrison, without good spirits it is impossible for one to do one’s best. Those I don’t possess just now.”
“Well, if, because you are parted a few months, the lady pleases to forsake you, as you suspect, then all I can say is that you are very fortunate in becoming aware of the truth ere it is too late,” the elder man argued.