mischances was pathetic.

None of this by-play escaped Ruth, whose sense of humour needed no
developing. That she possessed any sense of humour was in itself
one of those human miracles which metaphysicians are always
pothering over without arriving anywhere; for her previous
environment had been particularly humourless. But if she smiled at
all it was with her eyes. To-night she could have hugged both the
old maids.

"Somebody ought to get hold of that young man," said Prudence,
grimly, as she nodded in Spurlock's direction. "Look at him!"

Ruth looked. He was draining a glass, and as he set it down he
shuddered. A siphon and a whisky bottle stood before him. He
measured out the portion of another peg, the bottle wavering in his
hand. His food lay untouched about his plate. There was no disgust
in Ruth's heart, only an infinite pity; for only the pitiful
understand.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"I have no sympathy," replied Prudence, "with a man who
deliberately fuddles himself with strong drink."

"You would, if you had seen what I have. Men in this part of the
world drink to forget the things they have lost."

"And what should a young man like this one have to forget?"
Prudence demanded to know.