"Good heavens! I hope you respected it," cried Searle.
"I looked at it for a long time in my little glass," said his cousin, simply.
"Miss Searle, for many years to come, can afford to be amused at gray hairs," I said.
"Ten years hence I shall be forty-three," she answered.
"That's my age," said Searle. "If I had only come here ten years ago! I should have had more time to enjoy the feast, but I should have had less of an appetite. I needed to get famished for it."
"Why did you wait for the starving point?" asked Mr. Searle. "To think of these ten years that we might have been enjoying you!" And at the thought of these wasted ten years Mr. Searle broke into a violent nervous laugh.
"I always had a notion,—a stupid, vulgar notion, if there ever was one,—that to come abroad properly one ought to have a pot of money. My pot was too nearly empty. At last I came with my empty pot!"
Mr. Searle coughed with an air of hesitation. "You're a—you're in limited circumstances?"
My friend apparently was vastly tickled to have his bleak situation called by so soft a name. "Limited circumstances!" he cried with a long, light laugh; "I'm in no circumstances at all!"
