At the
word, a man beside him, hearing, turned to look, looked again, and
then held out his hand. It was the father of Ethel Dent.
That night, the Dents dined alone. Over the roast, Mr. Dent looked
up suddenly.
"Whom do you think I saw, to-day, Ethel?"
"Who now?" she asked, smiling. "You can't expect me to guess, when
you are constantly running up against the most impossible people."
"Not this time. It was quite possible; but it gave me a shock. It
was Mr. Weldon."
The smile died from her lips. Nevertheless, she asked, with a forced
lightness,--
"What shocked you?"
"His looks. He was ghastly, thin to a shadow and burning up with
fever. I was in the bank, and I heard some one speak his name; but I
had to look at him for a second time, before I could recognize him.
The man is a wreck. He looked sixty years old, as he went crawling
off, on the arm of his Kaffir boy. I'm sorry. I always liked
Weldon."
A bit of bread lay by Ethel's plate. For an instant, her finger tips
vanished inside its yielding surface. Then she looked up.
"Too bad! He was a good fellow," she said quietly. Then she lifted
her hand to her throat. "Dear me! Have I lost my diamond pin?" she
added hastily.
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