"I don't mean anything bad," he hastened to suggest—because that would bring up the subject in discussable form.
"I can't go with you," said the girl drearily. "Don't bother me, please."
"Oh—excuse me." And the man went on.
Susan turned the bundle over in her lap, thrust her fingers slowly and deliberately into the fold of the soiled blouse which was on the outside. She drew out the money. A ten and two fives. Enough to keep his room at the hospital for two weeks. No, for she must live, herself. Enough to give him a room one week longer and to enable her to live two weeks at least. . . . And day after tomorrow—more. Perhaps, soon—enough to see him through the typhoid. She put the money in her bosom, rose and went on toward the hospital. She no longer felt weary, and the sensation of a wound that might ache if she were not so numb passed away.
A clerk she had not seen before was at the barrier desk. "I came to ask how Mr. Burlingham is," said she.
The clerk yawned, drew a large book toward him. "Burlingham—B—Bu—Bur——" he said half to himself, turning over the leaves. "Yes—here he is." He looked at her. "You his daughter?"
"No, I'm a friend."
"Oh—then—he died at five o'clock—an hour ago."
He looked up—saw her eyes—only her eyes. They were a deep violet now, large, shining with tragic softness—like the eyes of an angel that has lost its birthright through no fault of its own. He turned hastily away, awed, terrified, ashamed of himself.