my bad temper for a few dollars a month!"

"I think," said I, "that it's partly because she's poor, partly
because she's sorry for you."

He looked up with a ghastly smile.

"You think she really is sorry?"

Before I could answer he went on: "I'm no mawkish sentimentalist, and
I won't allow anybody to be sorry for me--do you hear?"

"Oh, I'm not sorry for you!" I said, hastily, and, for the first time
since I had seen him, he laughed heartily, without a sneer.

We both seemed to feel better after that; I drank his wine and smoked
his cigars, and he appeared to take a certain grim pleasure in
watching me.

"There's no fool like a young fool," he observed, presently.

As I had no doubt he referred to me, I paid him no attention.

After fidgeting with his shawls, he gave me an oblique scowl and asked
me my age.

"Twenty-four," I replied.

"Sort of a tadpole, aren't you?" he said.