She went directly home. Palmer was lying on the bed, a cigarette between his lips, a newspaper under his feet to prevent his boots from spoiling the spread—one of the many small indications of the prudence, thrift and calculation that underlay the almost insane recklessness of his surface character, and that would save him from living as the fool lives and dying as the fool dies.
"I thought you wouldn't slop round in these streets long," said he, as she paused upon the threshold. "So I waited."
She went to the bureau, unlocked the top drawer, took the ten-dollar bill she had under some undershirts there, put it in her right stocking where there were already a five and a two. She locked the drawer, tossed the key into an open box of hairpins. She moved toward the door.
"Where are you going?" asked he, still staring at the ceiling.
"Out. I've made almost nothing this week."
"Sit down. I want to talk to you."
She hesitated, seated herself on a chair near the bed.
He frowned at her. "You've been drinking?"
"Yes."
"I've been drinking myself, but I've got a nose like a hunting dog. What do you do it for?"