Mike was sincere, but “there is something not wholly disagreeable to us in hearing of the misfortunes even of our best friends,” and Mike felt the old thought forced into his mind that he who had come from the top had gone to the bottom, and that he who came from the bottom was going—­had gone to the top.  Taking care, however, that none of the triumph ebullient within him should rise into his voice, he said—­

“I am really sorry for you, Frank.  You mustn’t despair; perhaps the child won’t live, and perhaps the paper will succeed.  It must succeed.  It shall succeed.”

“Succeed! nothing succeeds with me.  I and my wife and child are beggars on the face of the earth.  It matters little to me whether the paper succeeds or fails.  Thigh has got pretty nearly all of it.  When my debts are paid I shall not have enough to set myself up in rooms.”

At the end of a painful silence, Mike said—­

“We’ve had our quarrels, but you’ve been a damned good friend to me; it is my turn now to stand to you.  To begin with, here is the three hundred that I won from Thigh.  I don’t want it.  I assure you I don’t.  Then there are your rooms in Temple Gardens; I’ll take them off your hands.  I’ll pay all the arrears of rent, and give you the price you paid for your furniture.”

“What damned nonsense! how can you do that?  Take three hundred pounds from you—­the price of your book.  You have nothing else in the world!”

“Yes, I have; it is all right, old chap; you can have the money.  The fact is,” he said, “Lady Seeley has left me her whole fortune; the letter I just received is from the solicitors.  They say three thousand a year in various securities, and a property in Berkshire.  So you see I can afford to be generous.  I shall feel much hurt if you don’t accept.  Indeed, it is the least I can do; I owe it to you.”

The men looked at each other, their eyes luminous with intense and quickening emotions.  Fortune had been so derisive that Mike feared Frank would break into foolish anger, and that only a quarrel and worse hatred might result from his offer of assistance.

“It was in my box you met her; I remember the night quite well.  You were with Harding.” [Footnote:  See Spring Days.] The men exchanged an inquiring look.  “She wanted me to go home and have supper with her; she was in love with me then; I might have been her lover.  But I refused, and I went into the bar and spoke to Lizzie; when she went off on duty I went and sat with you and Harding.  Not long after I saw you at Reading, in the hotel overlooking the river.  I was with Lizzie.” [Footnote:  See Spring Days.]

“You can’t accuse me of having cut you out.  You could have got her, and—­”

“I didn’t want her; I was in love with Lizzie, and I am still.  And strange as it may appear to you, I regret nothing, at least nothing that concerns Lizzie.”

Mike wondered if this were true.  His fingers fidgeted with the cheques.  “Won’t you take them?”