This sort of a joking, whimsical girl had been the one who had come to him in the smoke wreaths and tantalized him and promised him-- But now, his life was gray.

His heart was not his own.

His life was at best only a grim, drab thing of ugly memories and angered determinations.

If a home should ever come to him, it must be in company with some one to whom he owed the gratitude of friendship in time of need; not love not affection, but the paying of a debt of deepest honor.

Which Barry would do, and faithfully and honestly and truthfully.