thought of the aid he had once received from his aunt—and he remembered her last letter. He knew that his uncle, appealed to, would advise him to return home. He had no longer the companionship—such as it had been—of Conroy and Bert Pittsey to help him. Miss Morris was, after all, a doubtful ally who might turn against him because of Margaret. He was alone—as he had so desired to be—in the face of a calamity that made him feel the want of friends. He was alone, unable to help himself. And Margaret was depending on him!
An apathy of despair began to mute his thoughts, and he struggled against it, with an instinct of self-preservation, as if it were a suicidal impulse. "See now," he told himself. "At this time yesterday, everything was going as well as possible. She was on the stage with you. You were both lodging in the one house. You were looking forward to a winter with her, to promotions, to gradual increases of salary, to a future that should grow from day to day into the greatest happiness. Well, twenty-four hours can't have changed it all. It's impossible! Or if one day has made all the difference, another day can restore it. What are you afraid of? Nonsense! You have come through narrower squeaks than this. Look where you were the day you were starting for New York—or the day you met Pittsey on Sixth Avenue. You hadn't even four dollars a week, then. And she was in Europe!"
But the situation was not to be talked down. There remained the facts that he had used up all his savings,
