ong us can tell.

And the bruises showed clearer as time went on. The lines in his once
well-rounded, almost boyish face grew deeper and more strongly marked,
the eyes shrank far back beneath the brows, the lips became thinner and
less mobile, the hair was streaked with gray, and the feet lacked their
old-time spring.

With these there had come other changes. The smile which had won many a
woman was replaced by a self-conscious smirk; the debonair manner which
had charmed all who met him was now a mere bravado. His dress, too,
showed the strain. While his collar and neckwear were properly looked
after, and his face was clean-shaven, other parts of his make-up,
especially his shoes and hat, were much the worse for wear.

This, then, was the man who, with thoughts intent on his last and
most degrading makeshift, was forging his way up Second Avenue, the
mantilla--the veriest film of old Salamanca lace--pressed into a small
wad and stuffed in his inside pocket.

And now, while we follow him on his way up-town, it may be just as well
for us to note that up to this precise moment our devil-may-care, still
rather handsome Mr. Dalton, with the drooping eyelids and cold, hard
lips, had entirely failed to grasp the idea that, in so far as public
and private morals were concerned, he had in the last thirty minutes
fallen to the level of a common sneak-thief.

His own reasoning, in disproof of this theory, was entirely
characteristic of the man. While the pawning of one's things was of
course unfortunate and might occasion many misunderstandings and
much obloquy, such an act was not necessarily dishonest, because many
gentlemen, some of high social position, had been compelled to do the
same thing. He himself, yielding to force of circumstances, had already
pawned a good many things--his wife's first, and then his own--and would
do it again under similar conditions. That the article carefully hidden
in his pocket belonged to neither one of them, did not strike him as
altering the situation in the slightest. The mantilla was of no value to
him, nor, for that matter, to Lady Barbara. He would pawn it not alone
for the sake of the money it would bring him, to tide him over his
troubles until he could recover his losses--only a question of days,
perhaps hours--but because, by means of the transaction, he would be
enabled to restore harmony to a home which, through the obstinacy of a
woman on whom he had squandered every penny h