Ordinarily the sight of a drunken man would have awakened little
emotion save disgust, but the realization of the helplessness of the
two people before him filled him with inward rage, and for some time
he could not trust himself to speak. A sickening horror of this
hideous side of life filled him with strange protest. Yesterday he had
not known and had not cared that such things could be, and now--

On Carmencita's face was none of the alarm that had come into his. Her
father, too, was getting over his fright. For this helpless old man
and fair, frail child, whose wit and courage were equal to situations
of which she had the right of childhood to be ignorant, the scene just
witnessed had the familiarity of frequent repetition, but for him it
was horribly new, and if the Damanarkist of whom Carmencita so often
spoke should come in he would be glad to shake his hand.

A noise at the door made him start. They were coming. The boy and
Frances. He dug his hands deeper in his pockets to hide their
trembling, and his face went white.

But it was not Noodles. It was Mr. Robinsky, who had brought the harp,
and, though he evidently intended to sit down and talk, with
consummate skill and grace he was led into the hall by Carmencita and
told good night with sweetness and decision. It was wonderfully
managed. No man could have done it, and in his heart Van Landing
thanked her; but before he could speak there was a loud pounding on
the door, and both he and Carmencita started nervously toward it.

"It's Noodles. I know his knock." Carmencita's hands clasped tightly,
and in her voice was eager trembling. "I'm so excited I can't breathe
good! It's like being in a book. Go in the room over there quick, Mr.