Come to take leave. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. Well, I don't think they'll any of 'em nab him, that's one comfort. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. Then I tucked it nice and snug under the saddle-bag. “Yes?” he said. His glance came up again and met hers. Niece and aunt regarded each other for a moment over their pockethandkerchiefs with watery but antagonistic eyes, each far too profoundly moved to see the absurdity of the position. “He fancied that he did,” she corrected him coolly.
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