’ The lady uttered a scornful sound. The Master of the Mint IV. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. You were pointed out to me at—a few nights ago. My only love is for my poor lost son. His hand flew across the paper. What a pity! For all her ignorance of material things—the human inventions which served the physical comforts of man—how much she knew about man himself! She had seen him bereft of all those spiritual props which permit man to walk on two feet instead of four—broken, without resilience.
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