She was looking about her, and her face was dark with anger. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. Would there be enough in the young man's envelope to pay the doctor and the hotel bill—and in the event of his death, enough to ship the body home? So all things pointed to the happy circumstance of setting this young fool upon his feet again, of seeing him hence upon his journey. Perhaps you will meet him someday. “Then why the devil,” he demanded, “do you let me stand you dinners and the opera—and why do you come to a cabinet particuliar with me?” He became radiant with anger. She agreed entirely with her brother. A home MAY be a sort of cage, but still—it’s a home.
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