"But, Ashy, you haven't paid for last week yet," pleaded Etta, clinging to his arm.
"You kin have my share of the furniture for that."
"The furniture! Oh, my God!" shrieked Etta, releasing him to throw out her arms in despair. "How'll we pay for the furniture if you go?"
"Ask your high and mighty lady friend," said her brother. And he opened the door, passed into the hall, slammed it behind him. Susan waited a moment for Etta to speak, then turned to see what she was doing. She had dropped into one of the flimsy chairs, was staring into vacancy.
"We'll have to give up these rooms right away," said Susan.
Etta roused herself, looked at her friend. And Susan saw what Etta had not the courage to express—that she blamed her for not having "made the best of it" and kept Ashbel. And Susan was by no means sure that the reproach in Etta's eyes and heart were not justified. "I couldn't do it, Etta," she said with a faint suggestion of apology.
"Men are that way," said Etta sullenly.
"Oh, I don't blame him," protested Susan. "I understand. But—I can't do it, Etta—I simply can't!"
"No," said Etta. "You couldn't. I could, but you couldn't. I'm not as far down as Ashbel. I'm betwixt and between; so I can understand you both."
"You go and make up with him and let me look after myself. I'll get along."