"What do I know about it? What can I help knowing about it? How can I shut my eyes against it?"
"I don't see why they are so very wretched. They get pay, I'm sure. Somebody has to work; somebody has to be poor. What are you writing?"
"The necessary rot of an editorial page." he answered.
"Why, how your handwriting has changed," she said, leaning over the table.
"How so?"
"Why, this is so different from the letters you wrote before you came home."
He did not reply immediately; he was thinking. "Pens in that country cut queer capers," he said. "Where are those letters, anyway?"
"Mother has put them away somewhere."
"I should like to see them again."
"Why?"