always make matters worse when a man is in trouble, but in this instance
the fact that a certain one existed really caused the circumstances to
be more trying. There was a charming young woman in whom George Henry
had taken more than a casual interest. There was reason to suppose that
the interest was not all his, either, but there had been no definite
engagement. At the time when financial disaster came to the man, there
had grown up between him and Sylvia Hartley that sort of understanding
which cannot be described, but which is recognized clearly enough, and
which is to the effect that flowers bring fruit. Now he felt glad, for
her sake, that only the flower season had been reached. They were yet
unpledged. Since he could not support a wife, he must give up his love.
That was a matter of honor.

The woman was quite worthy of a man's love. She was clever and good. She
had dark hair and a wonderfully white skin, and dark, bright eyes, and
when he explained to her that he was a wreck financially, and said that
in consequence he didn't feel justified in demanding so much of her
attention, she exhibited in a gentle way a warmth of temperament which
endeared her to him more than ever, while she argued with him and tried
to laugh him out of his fears. He was tempted sorely, but he loved her
in a sufficiently unselfish way to resist. He even sought to conceal his
depth of feeling under a disguise of lightness. He admitted that in his
present frame of mind he ought to be with her as much as possible, as
then, if ever, he stood in need of a sure antidote for the blues, and
with a half-hearted jest he closed the conversation, and after that call
merely kept away from her. It was hard for him, and as hard for her; but
if he had honor, she had pride. So they drifted apart, each suffering.

Who shall describe with a just portrayal of its agony the inner life of
the reasonably strong man who feels that he is somehow going down hill