It comforts him when he is most forlorn. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. —'Why, hang every bailiff that sets a foot in your territories, and you're safe,' says I. ‘You will not guess again?’ ‘No, no, I am quite out of ideas. Meet me. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours.
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