his pommel. As it
was, he let himself go, and disgraced himself. I tried to talk to him,
just as you did, but he wouldn't have it--called me 'an insolent cub'
and--er--worse. I had to give it up. It was all very distressing, I
admit, but then, dear, it was all so long ago. He hasn't been in Kenton
City for two years and more, and I've no doubt he pulled himself
together long since, and is leading a straight life somewhere. He had
lots in him, with all his recklessness. A chap like that, with no family
hanging about his neck, and with his brains, and only his own living to
make, could forge ahead almost anywhere."

"But John, I'm _sure_ I saw him to-day, and suppose I should tell you
that he was--begging?"

Barclay almost smiled at her earnest, troubled face, as he replaced his
cup on the table.

"Begging?" he answered. "I'm afraid I couldn't bring myself to believe
you, violet-eyes. Even granting that he has fallen as low as that, which
I should think one of the most unlikely things in the world, it would
hardly be in Kenton City, would it?--a place where his face is known to
a thousand people. Tell me about it. What makes you think you saw him?"

"I was shopping this morning," said Natalie, "all alone; and as I came
out of Kendrick's and was just about to get into the brougham, I saw
that some one was holding the door open for me. I looked up carelessly,
as one naturally would under the circumstances, and, John--I know it was
he! At first I thought so, and then I didn't, because he was so changed,
so thin and pale, and because he had a beard. So, before I thought what
I was doing, I stepped into the brougham, and put my hand on the door to
close it. Then I looked up again, and saw his face, peering in at me
through the glass, and that time there couldn't be any mistake. It
_was_! I was going to speak, but he was gone in a flash. I saw him
disappearing in the crowd before the shop--_slinking_, John!--with that
dreadfully pathetic air which all beggars have, his shoulders all
hunched up, and his head bent, and his hands in his pockets. He was
cold, John, I could see that, and, no doubt, hungry! And there I was, in
that dreadful little brougham, with my hateful furs, as warm as toast,
and I didn't even speak to him. I could have died of shame!"

She buried her face in her hands, bending low over the tea-table.
Barclay was leaning forward in his chair, his lips set.

"It's impossible," he murmured, "impossible!"