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He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. Rumors had it he had been a looker in his youth, all long hair and chiseled muscles, but those days were long gone. “Lucy, have you noticed that I don’t even own a dog?” He spoke into her hair. To-morrow morning I shall have made up my mind what to do.
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