"No, sir!" cried George. "It could not have been either of those
women." He went on to tell the doctor about his first mistress,
and then about Lizette. Finally he told about Henriette, how
much he adored her. He could really use such a word--he loved
her most tenderly. She was so good--and he had thought himself
so lucky!

As he went on, he could hardly keep from going to pieces. "I had
everything," he exclaimed, "everything a man needed! All who
knew me envied me. And then I had to let those fellows drag me
off to that miserable supper-party! And now here I am! My
future is ruined, my whole existence poisoned! What is to become
of me? Everybody will avoid me--I shall be a pariah, a leper!"

He paused, and then in sudden wild grief exclaimed, "Come, now!
Would it not be better that I should take myself out of the way?
At least, I should not suffer any more. You see that there could
not be any one more unhappy than myself--not any one, I tell you,
sir, not any one!" Completely overcome, he began to weep in his
handkerchief.

The doctor got up, and went to him. "You must be a man," he
said, "and not cry like a child."

"But sir," cried the young man, with tears running down his
cheeks, "if I had led a wild life, if I had passed my time in
dissipation with chorus girls, then I could understand it. Then
I would say that I had deserved it."