"My sweet, self-sacrificing sister," she murmured.
"Oh stop that!" Lulu said.
Dwight took her hand, lying limply in his. "I can now," he said, "overlook the matter of the letter."
Lulu drew back. She put her hair behind her ears, swallowed, and cried out.
"Don't you go around pitying me! I'll have you know I'm glad the whole thing happened!"
Cornish had ordered six new copies of a popular song. He knew that it was popular because it was called so in a Chicago paper. When the six copies arrived with a danseuse on the covers he read the "words," looked wistfully at the symbols which shut him out, and felt well pleased.
"Got up quite attractive," he thought, and fastened the six copies in the window of his music store.
It was not yet nine o'clock of a vivid morning. Cornish had his floor and sidewalk sprinkled, his red and blue plush piano spreads dusted. He sat at a folding table well back in the store, and opened a law book.
For half an hour he read. Then he found himself looking off the page, stabbed by a reflection which always stabbed him anew: Was he really getting anywhere with his law? And where did he really hope to get? Of late when he awoke at night this question had stood by the cot, waiting.