So, with a fellow-feeling for Graham, she listened outside his door. She wanted very badly to slip in and give her sympathy to her brother and receive some of it from him. She didn't feel quite as individualistic as usual. The artificiality of the flapper left her for the time being and she felt as young as she really was and rather helpless, and awfully lonely.
Hearing nothing, she tapped gently on the door, opened it and went in. Graham was sitting in an arm-chair with his elbows on his knees and his head between his hands. He made a picture of wretchedness which would have melted the heart of a sphinx. Ethel went over to him and put her hand on his shoulder. "Is anything the matter, Hammie?" she asked, using the nickname that she had given him as a child.
Graham didn't look up. "Oh, Lord, no!" he said, with a touch of impatience. "What should be the matter?" But he was very glad to feel that touch of friendliness on his shoulders.
"Can I do anything for you?"
"Oh, no. I'm all right—as right as rain."
Ethel knew better. She knew also that she would have said those very things to Belle if she had been caught in a similar state of depression. So she sat down on the arm of Graham's chair and put her hand against his cheek. "I've got about a hundred and seventy-five dollars, if that's any good to you," she said.
Graham gave a scoffing laugh, but all the same he was very grateful for the offer. "My dear kid," he said, "a hundred and seventy-five dollars—that's no better than a dry bone to a hungry man."
"Is it as bad as all that, Hammie?"
"Yes, and then some."
Ethel thought deeply for a few minutes. Her characteristic selfishness, which had been almost tenderly encouraged at school, had given way temporarily before her own disappointment. "Well," she said finally, "I've got four brooches and five rings, a watch and a dressing-case. You can sell them all if you like."