And, lastly, there's Mr. I'm thinking that the Wastrel was one day a celebrated professional; and the women were partly the cause of his fall. He was full of fabulous stories, not just tales of his own past in Rome but wonderful fables from the mysterious Orient and the ancient Greeks, old jokes and yarns that only he remembered. But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors. "You poor child!" Prudence took Ruth's hands in her own. I was sorry for what I did afterwards; for, I don't know why, but, poor, lady! with her pale face, and black eyes, she reminded me of my mother.
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