You may enjoy your pride, your arrogance—in a coffin. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. I love everything to-day, and all of you, but I love this, this—this innocence upon us most of all. And now she comprehended that the man (she had never known him by any name) knew she had surprised the look and had not resented it. The stranger with a bow returned to his table. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury. I don't believe his name is Taber. He saw it in book-covers, on the stage. E.
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