"It's these papers that infuriate me, being dragged out naked this way by these beasts, these bloodsuckers for everybody to gloat over.... God, I never want to go out of doors again."
"But after all, dear, it's such a marvellous romance..."
"O, Fitzie, will you please shut up?"
Miss Fitzhugh got slowly to her feet and put her untasted teacup down on the table.
"I'll go away now and come back for a minute after supper to see if you want anything."
"O, you are a dear, Fitzie." Nan followed her out into the hall.
Fanshaw sat stiffly in his chair looking out of the window at the sunny, cloud-flecked sky. In his hands he was folding and unfolding the newspaper Nan had dropped. His mind seethed with its phrases. Headlines in the ornamental print of the magazine section danced and writhed and squirmed mockingly through his head: Was it love lured young David Wendell to his doom? Known to frequent low companions ... inveterate slummer ... Despair over money matters or jilting by Back Bay girl led him first to try to ship as a sailor and at last to that final orgy in a foreign restaurant on Hanover Street... Victim of infatuation for some beautiful flower of the slums ... I must get this out of my head or go mad. Fanshaw started walking back and forth in front of the window clasping and unclasping his hands behind his back.
Nan came back into the room, her face calmer, a little smile hovering at the edges of her lips.
"I'd have just lain down on the floor and shrieked if Fitzie had stayed any longer."
"She has the holy stupidity of an early Christian saint," said Fanshaw. "But let's have some hot tea, Lord knows we'll need it."