Mr. Meredith could (and would not--
openly, at least) have explained to him that it made not a great deal of
difference what he did; it was what people thought he was.
His host helped him upstairs after dinner, and showed him the room
prepared for his occupancy. Harkless sank, sighing with weakness, into a
deep chair, and Meredith went to a window-seat and stretched himself out
for a smoke and chat.
"Doesn't it beat your time," he said, cheerily, "to think of what's become
of all the old boys? They turn up so differently from what we expected,
when they turn up at all. We sized them up all right so far as character
goes, I fancy, but we couldn't size up the chances of life. Take poor old
Pickle Haines: who'd have dreamed Pickle would shoot himself over a
bankruptcy? I dare say that wasn't all of it--might have been cherchez la
femme, don't you think? What do you make of Pickle's case, John?"
There was no answer. Harkless's chair was directly in front of the mantel-
piece, and upon the carved wooden shelf, amongst tobacco-jars and little
curios, cotillion favors and the like, there were scattered a number of
photographs. One of these was that of a girl who looked straight out at
you from a filigree frame; there was hardly a corner of the room where you
could have stood without her clear, serious eyes seeming to rest upon
yours.
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