She leaned back in her corner of the cab, shut her eyes, said no
more--and all but ceased to think. What was there to say? What was
there to think? When Fate ceases to tolerate our pleasant delusion
of free will, when it openly and firmly seizes us and hurries us
along, we do not discuss or comment. We close our minds, relax and
submit.

At the parsonage he sprang out, stood by to help her descend,
half-dragged her from the cab when she hesitated. He shouted at
the driver: "How much do I owe you, friend?"

"Six dollars, sir."

"Not on your life!" shouted Craig furiously. He turned to
Margaret, standing beside him in a daze. "What do you think of
THAT! This fellow imagines because I've got a well-dressed woman
along I'll submit. But I'm not that big a snob." He was looking up
at the cabman again. "You miserable thief!" he exclaimed. "I'll
give you three dollars, and that's too much by a dollar."

"Don't you call me names!" yelled the cabman, shaking his fist
with the whip in it.

"The man's drunk," cried Josh to the little crowd of people that
had assembled. Margaret, overwhelmed with mortification, tugged at
his sleeve. "The man's not overcharging much--if any," she said in
an undertone.

"You're saying that because you hate scenes," replied Josh loudly.
"You go on into the house. I'll take care of this hound."