Would she ever find it? Sighing, she opened the door to the next room, and drew back the drapes. “Concern me!” she repeated fiercely. "No, no, Sir," replied Ireton. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. And yet, at the end of this prayer a subconscious thought broke through to consciousness.
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