Angelica’s silence was eloquent.
"Then who’s this feller you call ‘doctor’?" she asked abruptly. "Does he live here?"
"That’s Dr. Russell, my mother’s second husband."
"Oh, I see! I had you all mixed up. But whose house is this—his?"
"No. It’s mine."
"Yours? Do they all live here with you?"
"Certainly," he said, reddening and frowning. "I want them to. I don’t want to live alone—no social life."
Poor devil! He was conscious of something ridiculous in his position, and yet he was proud of it. There weren’t many fellows of his age who could have done this. It had meant taking fearful risks, of course, and working without rest, but the worst of it was over now. He was really prominent in his world; he was a sort of financial prodigy, admired and watched. He called himself, on his office door, a stock-broker. He was on the road to becoming a millionaire; he had made up his mind to do it, and there was nothing to stop him.
"Well," said Angelica, "you’re awful good to them."
Again he frowned. They had both grown suddenly ill at ease, at a loss for words. Angelica got up.