Of course it did not alter my admiration of his qualities; nor weaken in any degree my resolve to give him a fair chance.

If he could be saved, I was determined to save him.
We met at the Gare de Lyons on Sunday evening.

I found he had dined at the buffet: there was a surprising number of empty bottles on the table; he seemed terribly depressed.
"Someone was dining with me, Frank, a friend," he offered by way of explanation.
"Why did he not wait?
I should like to have seen him." "Oh, he was no one you would have cared about, Frank," he replied.
I sat with him and took a cup of coffee, whilst waiting for the train.
He was wretchedly gloomy; scarcely spoke indeed; I could not make it out.

From time to time he sighed heavily, and I noticed that his eyes were red, as if he had been crying.
"What is the matter ?" I asked.
"I will tell you later, perhaps.

It is very hard; parting is like dying," and his eyes filled with tears.
We were soon in the train running out into the night.