Harriett put on her hat and went round to Lizzie and Sarah in turn. They
would know whether it were true or not. They would know whether Mr.
Hancock had been ruined by his own fault or Papa's.

Sarah was sorry. She picked up a fold of her skirt and crumpled it in her
fingers, and said over and over again, "She oughtn't to have told you."
But she didn't say it wasn't true. Neither did Lizzie, though her tongue
was a whip for Connie.

"Because you can't stand her dirty stories she goes and tells you this. It
shows what Connie is."

It showed her father as he was, too. Not wise. Not wise all the time.
Courageous, always, loving danger, intolerant of security, wild under all
his quietness and gentleness, taking madder and madder risks, playing his
game with an awful, cool recklessness. Then letting other people in;
ruining Mr. Hancock, the little man he used to laugh at. And it had killed
him. He hadn't been sorry for Mamma, because he knew she was glad the mad
game was over; but he had thought and thought about him, the little dirty
man, until he had died of thinking.



XIII


New people had come to the house next door. Harriett saw a pretty girl
going in and out. She had not called; she was not going to call. Their cat
came over the garden wall and bit off the blades of the irises. When he