“Also, I had a friend—a friend who for many years never left my side.

 

Occasionally of an imbecility to make one afraid, nevertheless he was very dear

to me. Figure to yourself that I miss even his stupidity.

 

His _naïveté_, his honest outlook, the pleasure of delighting and surprising him

by my superior gifts—all these I miss more than I can tell you.”

 

“He died?” I asked sympathetically.

 

“Not so. He lives and flourishes—but on the other side of the world. He is now

in the Argentine.”

 

“In the Argentine,” I said enviously.

 

I have always wanted to go to South America. I sighed, and then looked up to

find Mr. Porrott eyeing me sympathetically. He seemed an understanding little

man.

 

“You will go there, yes?” he asked.

 

I shook my head with a sigh.

 

“I could have gone,” I said, “a year ago. But I was foolish—and worse than