She spread them out on the table and seriously contemplated them.
"Most Southerners have. Didn't you ever notice it, even with the men? Down in Louisiana most of us have some French or Spanish blood. But mine have not been do-nothing hands, and I think they show it a little bit."
He stopped her, with a sudden distasteful memory of certain wax-white, wax-smooth and useless hands that almost had laid hold on his life.
"I hope that mine may soon show something. To-morrow I will try to become a wage-earner, and start a pay envelope to bring you."
"So soon?"
"Right away. Am I one of the idle rich? The fact is, our grocer tells me chauffeurs are badly needed at a certain factory near the foot of the hill. I think I should rather drive a motor truck than pilot a private car, open doors and touch my cap."
She nodded agreement.
"Yes, of course. What factory is it, Anthony?"
He regarded her with a whimsical humor.
"Well, to be exact, it is not a factory unfamiliar to us. It is one whose sign you often have viewed from the aristocratic side of the Hudson, and it is the property of Mr. Anthony Adriance, senior."