After that, what are you to say?"
"You speak of her as penniless," Thorpe remarked,
with a casual air.
"Six hundred a year," the father answered.
"We could have rubbed along after a fashion on it,
if she had had any notions at all of taking my advice.
I'm a man of the world, and I could have managed her
affairs for her to her advantage, but she insisted upon
going off by herself. She showed not the slightest
consideration for me--but then I am accustomed to that."
Thorpe smiled reflectively, and the old gentleman read
in this an encouragement to expand his grievances.
"In my position," he continued, helping himself to still
another tiny glass, "I naturally say very little.
It is not my form to make complaints and advertise
my misfortunes. I daresay it's a fault. I know it kept
me back in India--while ever so many whipper-snappers
were promoted over my head--because I was of the proud
and silent sort. It was a mistake, but it was my nature.
I might have put by a comfortable provision for my old age,
in those days, if I had been willing to push my claims,
and worry the Staff into giving me what was my due.
But that I declined to do--and when I was retired, there was
nothing for me but the ration of bread and salt which they
serve out to the old soldier who has been too modest.
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