children go about with their clothes
dropping off them. I see that; and I see these Urquharts, closely
connected with our family, rolling in unearned riches, spending and
squandering and wasting and never giving away. I see the Robinsons, our
own relations, fattening on the money that ought to have come to us, and
now and then throwing us a loan as you throw a dog a bone. I see your
friend Leslie taking himself off to the antipodes to spend his millions,
that he may be out of the reach of disturbing appeals. I see a world
constituted so that you would think the devils in hell must cry shame on
it." His cough, made worse by the fog, choked his relation of his vision.

Peter had nothing to say to it: he could only sigh over it. The Haves and
the Have-Nots--there they are, and there is no getting round the ugly
fact.

"Denis," said Peter, "would lend me money if I asked him. You heard him
offer. But I am not going to ask him. We are none of us going to ask him.
If I find that you have, and that he has given it you, I shall pay it
straight back.... You know, Hilary, we're really not so badly off as all
that; we get along pretty well, I think; better than most other people."
The other Have-Nots; they made no difference, in Hilary's eyes, to the
fact that of course the Margerisons should have been among the Haves.

Hilary said, "You are absolutely impervious, Peter, to other people's
troubles," and turned up his coat-collar and sank down on a seat in the
waiting-room. (Of course, they had missed the 10.5, the last good train,
and were now waiting for the 11.2, the slow one.)

Peter walked up and down the platform, feeling very cold. He had come
away, in his excitement, without his overcoat. The chill of the foggy
night seemed to sink deep into his innermost being.

Hilary's words rang in his ears. "I see that we get a little more
destitute every day." It was true. Every day the Margerisons seemed to
lose something more. To-night Peter had lost something he could ill
afford to part with--another degree of Denis Urquhart's regard. That
seemed to be falling from him bit by bit; perhaps that was why he felt so
cold. However desperately he clung to the remnants, as he had clung since
that last interview in Venice, he could not think to keep them much
longer at this rate.

As he walked up and down the platform, his cold hands thrust deep into
his pockets, he was contemplating another loss--one that would hurt
absurdly much.