And a lonely young man looking in.
There was something in McIlvaine's face—that same thing I had noticed so often before, a kind of expression that seemed to say there was something he ought to know, something he ought to remember, to do, to say, but there was no way in which he could reach back to it."
"Or forward," I said with a wry smile.
"As you like," said Harrigan.
"Pour me another, will you?"
I did and he took it.
"That poor devil!" he muttered.
"He'd be happier if he could only go back where he came from."
"Wouldn't we all?" I asked.
"But nobody ever goes home again.
Perhaps McIlvaine never had a home like that."
"You'd have thought so if you could have seen his face looking in at Leopold and Alexander.
Oh, it may have been a trick of the streetlight there, it may have been my imagination.
But it sticks to my memory, and I keep thinking how alike the two were—old McIlvaine trying so desperately to find someone who could believe him, and his nephew now trying just as hard to find someone to accept him or a place he could accept on the only terms he knows."