A change
has come upon me. I shall not
use the pistol--as I meant to use
it."
Glad made a friendly clutch at the
sleeve of his shabby coat.
"Right O!" she cried. "That 's
it! You buck up sime as I told yer.
Y' ain't stony broke an' there's 'allers
to-morrer."
Antony Dart's expression was
weirdly retrospective.
"I did not think so this morning,"
he answered.
"But there is," said the girl.
"Ain't there now, curick? There 's
a lot o' work in yer yet; yer could
do all sorts o' things if y' ain't
too proud. I 'll 'elp yer. So 'll
the curick. Y' ain't found out yet
what a little folks can live on till
luck turns. Me, I'm goin' to try
Miss Montaubyn's wye. Le's both
try. Le 's believe things is comin'.
Le 's get 'er to talk to us some
more."
The curate was thinking the thing
over deeply.
"Yer see," Glad enlarged cheerfully,
"yer look almost like a gentleman.
P'raps yer can write a good
'and an' spell all right. Can yer?"
"Yes."
"I think, perhaps," the curate began
reflectively, "particularly if you
can write well, I might be able to
get you some work."
"I do not want work," Dart
answered slowly. "At least I do not
want the kind you would be likely
to offer me."
The curate felt a shock, as if cold
water had been dashed over him.
Somehow it had not once occurred
to him that the man could be one
of the educated degenerate vicious
for whom no power to help lay in
any hands--yet he was not the common
vagrant--and he was plainly
on the point of producing an excuse
for refusing work.
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