“Edith had to leave town, and so Sibyl thinks she'll have to, too!”
“Oh, I wouldn't put it that way,” Roscoe protested, drearily.
“No, I hear YOU wouldn't!” There was a bitter gibe in the father's voice, and he added: “It's a good thing she's goin' abroad—if she'll stay there. I shouldn't think any of us want her here any more—you least of all!”
“It's no use your talking that way,” said Roscoe. “You won't do any good.”
“Well, when are you comin' back to your office?” Sheridan used a brisker, kinder tone. “Three weeks since you showed up there at all. When you goin' to be ready to cut out whiskey and all the rest o' the foolishness and start in again? You ought to be able to make up for a lot o' lost time and a lot o' spilt milk when that woman takes herself out o' the way and lets you and all the rest of us alone.”
“It's no use, father, I tell you. I know what Gurney was going to say to you. I'm not going back to the office. I'm DONE!”
“Wait a minute before you talk that way!” Sheridan began his sentry-go up and down the room. “I suppose you know it's taken two pretty good men about sixteen hours a day to set things straight and get 'em runnin' right again, down in your office?”
“They must be good men.” Roscoe nodded indifferently. “I thought I was doing about eight men's work. I'm glad you found two that could handle it.”
“Look here! If I worked you it was for your own good. There are plenty men drive harder'n I do, and—”
“Yes. There are some that break down all the other men that work with 'em. They either die, or go crazy, or have to quit, and are no use the rest of their lives. The last's my case, I guess—'complicated by domestic difficulties'!”