"You're looking a bit seedy, Hugh," the Old Colonel began in his usual straightforward way. "I'm afraid you're getting to be sort of a poor stick."
His tone was that with which he was wont to begin an interesting story: perfectly matter-of-fact, just as if he were pronouncing a judgment on the weather. Hugh flushed to the roots of his hair but he didn't take offense. No one ever could take offense when the Colonel told them truths.
"Complimentary mood to-day, eh, Colonel," Hugh commented lightly. In reality he didn't feel in a festive mood at all. But he sat still, dreading what might come next.
"No, not particularly," the Colonel answered soberly. "You know, Hugh, the interest I've always taken in you. And you know why."
Yes, Hugh knew why. It went back to one of his own mother's girlhood romances,—a rather beautiful story such as men tell their wives and sweethearts but from masculine reserve do not talk over among themselves.
"I know," Hugh agreed.
"I can't see," the old man went on thoughtfully, "that in spite of the—er—damnable joy of having you around, you're any good to yourself or any one else. Why don't you lay off of it a while?"
"You mean—this?" Hugh tilted his glass up on one edge.
