The subway train came crashing in, and Pluto crouched in his basket.
Eliza's suspicions and anxieties increased as, after leaving the subway, their journey continued; and when they finally came into a region of old and aristocratic dwellings, her eyes were round and she could no longer keep silent. It was an outrage, an imposition, to have influenced the young art-student to commit himself to a home in these surroundings.
"I'd 'a' been a whole lot better person to 'a' helped you find a place than Mrs. Fabian," she said, more and more impressed with the incongruity of the situation. To be sure, Phil looked like a prince and fit for any environment; but not while trudging along with a shabby, grey-haired woman, and carrying a cat-basket.
"I know, I know, Eliza," he returned, with gay recognition of her perturbation and disapproval. "I'm sorry sometimes that elegance and luxury are necessary to me. It's the penalty of blue blood. Mrs. Fabian had nothing to do with this; but I had to find my level, Eliza. Blood will tell."
"You said rats and mice," she returned mechanically. "Are you sure you've got the right street?"
"Sure as a homing pigeon;—by the way, I might keep pigeons! I never thought of it."
"For the rats?" inquired Eliza with some asperity.
She had always heard that geniuses were erratic. Also that without exception they were ignorant of the value of money. Poor Mrs. Ballard! What a small space of time it would take for her little capital to be licked up as by a fierce heat.
"This way," cried her escort, and swung Pluto's basket triumphantly as he turned abruptly into an alley.
Eliza caught her breath in the midst of her resentment. "You do go in the back way, then."