"There's twenty-two dollars here, Butch!"
Her hand moved out as if offering to return the money. With an angry movement he slapped it back and turned away.
"That's right," he muttered sourly. "I slipped an extra ten in. I guess I gotta right to, ain't I? You're my sister, and you'll need it before you get through, all right."
She lingered, stunned. "But, Butch ... I oughtn't to...."
"Ah, can that guff—and beat it. The Old Man's liable to be back any minute."
Seizing her suit-case, he urged her none too gently toward the door.
"It's awful' good of you, Butch—awful' good—"
"All right—all right. But can the gush-thing till next time."
Overwhelmed, Joan permitted herself to be thrust out of the door; and then, recovering to some extent, masked her excitement as best she could and trudged away across-town, back toward Central Park.
Blind instinct urged her to that refuge where she would have quiet and peace while she thought things out: a necessity which had not existed until within the last fifteen minutes.