He leaped as out of a trance.
“Just 'the world,' Richard,” said he. “For I am adrift again, and not very like to find a harbour, now.”
“You were to have been paid for this, Mr. Allen,” I replied. “And a man must live.”
“A man must live!” he cried. “The devil coined that line, and made it some men's history.”
“I have you on my conscience, Mr. Allen,” I went on, “for I have been at fault as well as you. I might have treated you better, even as you have said. And I command you to assign a place in London whence you may be reached.”
“A letter to the Mitre coffee-house will be delivered,” he said.
“You shall receive it,” I answered. “And now I bid you good-by, and thank you.”
He seized and held my hand. Then walked blindly to the door and turned abruptly.
“I do not tell you that I shall change my life, Richard, for I have said that too many times before. Indeed, I warn you that any money you may send will be spent in drink, and—and worse. I will be no hypocrite to you. But I believe that I am better this hour than I have been since last I knelt at my mother's knee in the little Oxfordshire cottage where I was born.”
When Dorothy returned to me, there was neither haste in her step nor excitement in her voice. Her very coolness inspired me.