“I have not been away, Pink. I left home—it's a long story. I am staying with my aunt, Mrs. Doyle.”
“Mrs. Doyle? You are staying there?”
“Why not? My father's sister.”
His young face took on a certain sternness.
“If you knew what I suspect about Doyle, Lily, you wouldn't let the same roof cover you.” But he added, rather wistfully, “I wish I might see you sometimes.”
Lily's head had gone up a trifle. Why did her old world always try to put her in the wrong? She had had to seek sanctuary, and the Doyle house had been the only sanctuary she knew.
“Since you feel as you do, I'm afraid that's impossible. Mr. Doyle's roof is the only roof I have.”
“You have a home,” he said, sturdily.
“Not now. I left, and my grandfather won't have me back. You mustn't blame him, Pink. We quarreled and I left. I was as much responsible as he was.”
For a moment after she turned and disappeared inside the pharmacy door he stood there, then he put on his hat and strode down the street, unhappy and perplexed. If only she had needed him, if she had not looked so self-possessed and so ever so faintly defiant, as though she dared him to pity her, he would have known what to do. All he needed was to be needed. His open face was full of trouble. It was unthinkable that Lily should be in that center of anarchy; more unthinkable that Doyle might have filled her up with all sorts of wild ideas. Women were queer; they liked theories. A man could have a theory of life and play with it and boast about it, but never dream of living up to it. But give one to a woman, and she chewed on it like a dog on a bone. If those Bolshevists had got hold of Lily—!