She was frightened by Susan's eyes. "You
ain't going to----" There she halted.
"What?"
"To jump off? Kill yourself?"
"Hardly," said Susan. "I've got a lot to do before I die."
She went directly home. Palmer was lying on the bed, a
cigarette between his lips, a newspaper under his feet to
prevent his boots from spoiling the spread--one of the many
small indications of the prudence, thrift and calculation that
underlay the almost insane recklessness of his surface
character, and that would save him from living as the fool
lives and dying as the fool dies.
"I thought you wouldn't slop round in these streets long," said
he, as she paused upon the threshold. "So I waited."
She went to the bureau, unlocked the top drawer, took the
ten-dollar bill she had under some undershirts there, put it in
her right stocking where there were already a five and a two.
She locked the drawer, tossed the key into an open box of
hairpins. She moved toward the door.
"Where are you going?" asked he, still staring at the ceiling.
"Out. I've made almost nothing this week."
"Sit down. I want to talk to you."
She hesitated, seated herself on a chair near the bed.
He frowned at her. "You've been drinking?"
"Yes."
"I've been drinking myself, but I've got a nose like a hunting
dog. What do you do it for?"
"What's the use of explaining? You'd not understand."
"Perhaps I would.
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