But they always arise.
In their small but pretty house, terrible scenes had already occurred between her and her brother--consternation, anger, and passionate denial on her part; on his, fury, threats, maudlin paroxysms of self-pity, and every attitude that drink and utter demoralisation can distort into a parody on what a brother might say and do.
To escape it she had gone to Tuxedo for a week; now, fear and foreboding had brought her back--fear intensified at the very threshold of the city when Duane seemed to look straight at her and pass her by without recognition.

Men don't do that, but she was too inexperienced to know it; and she hastened on with a heavy heart, found a taxi-cab to take her to the only home she had ever known, descended, and rang for admittance.
In these miserable days she had come to look for hidden meaning even in the expressionless faces of her trained servants, and now she misconstrued the respectful smile of welcome, brushed hastily past the maid who admitted her, and ran upstairs.
Except for the servants she was alone.

She rang for information concerning her brother; nobody had any.

He had not been home in a week.
Her toilet, after the journey, took her two hours or more to accomplish; it was dark at five o'clock and snowing heavily when tea was served.

She tasted it, then, unable to subdue her restlessness, went to the telephone; and after a long delay, heard the voice she tremblingly expected: "Is that you, Jack ?" she asked.
"Yes." "H-how are you ?" "Not very well." "Have you heard anything new about certain proceedings ?" she inquired tremulously.
"Yes; she's begun them." "On--on w-what grounds ?" "Not on any grounds to scare you.