Mr.Meredith could (and would not--openly, at least) have explained to him that it made not a great deal of difference what he did; it was what people thought he was.
His host helped him upstairs after dinner, and showed him the room prepared for his occupancy.

Harkless sank, sighing with weakness, into a deep chair, and Meredith went to a window-seat and stretched himself out for a smoke and chat.
"Doesn't it beat your time," he said, cheerily, "to think of what's become of all the old boys?
They turn up so differently from what we expected, when they turn up at all.

We sized them up all right so far as character goes, I fancy, but we couldn't size up the chances of life.

Take poor old Pickle Haines: who'd have dreamed Pickle would shoot himself over a bankruptcy?
I dare say that wasn't all of it--might have been cherchez la femme, don't you think?
What do you make of Pickle's case, John ?" There was no answer.

Harkless's chair was directly in front of the mantel-piece, and upon the carved wooden shelf, amongst tobacco-jars and little curios, cotillion favors and the like, there were scattered a number of photographs.