"I've had a funny adventure," said Wilmot. "I _was_ dreadfully broke. A
man I hadn't seen for years and years--and only the once at
that--stopped me in the street, told me I was broke, and offered to lend
me money. Wilmot accepted, and is now plenty flush enough to blow to
lunch, thank you!"

Barbara, reseated herself in the deep chair, and once more presented the
soles of her shoes to the flames. "Look here," she said, "aren't you,
just among old friends, rather flitting your life away? I don't think
it's very pretty to borrow money from strangers, and to be always just
getting into difficulties or just getting out of them. Do you?"

"Well, you know," said Wilmot earnestly, "I don't. When I don't hate
myself, I don't like myself any too well. But there's something wrong
with me. Maybe I'm just lazy. Maybe I lack an impulse. Maybe I'd do
better if any single solitary person in this world really gave a damn
about me."

His cheerful boyish face assumed a proper solemnity of expression, and
a certain nobility. At the moment he really thought that nobody in the
world cared what became of him.

"Nobody," said Barbara, "likes to back a flighty pony. You yourself, for
instance, are always putting money, your own or some one else's, on
horses that always run somewhere near form. Of course you have excuses
for yourself."

"I? None."