F. A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her. "When a man reaches the lowest scale through drink, we call him a beachcomber. Here's your health in a bumper, and wishing you a better husband than your first. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. ’ ‘But you must. So I introduced him to my father-in-law like a shot. ” “Certainly,” Mrs. Hadn’t they settled that already? “I want you as a friend,” he persisted, almost as if he disputed something.
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