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away?' Don't lean on that knee, that's where the rheumatism is--do you mean died?" Suzanna flinched. "We say 'went away,'" she answered gently; "you think then that someone you loved has just gone away for a little while, and is waiting somewhere for you." The man's gaze wandered up to the lovely, smiling face above the mantel and stayed there a space before his eyes came back to Suzanna. "And so," she finished, "because everything came together, rent and insurance and shoes, and a coat, I had to wear these slippers." Suzanna was quite cheerful again, only very eager that he should understand the situation. At this moment the timid little valet appeared in the doorway. "Anything you wish, sir?" he began. "Are you quite comfortable?" "You infernal idiot!" bawled the man in the chair. "Can anyone be comfortable with rheumatism in his knee?" The little man precipitately retired. "You're awful cross," Suzanna commented. "What does the man mean asking if you're 'comfortable?' That's what Miss Massey asked me in the park carriage. I was sitting down, and nothing hurt me." "In other words," he answered, strangely catching her meaning at once, "one chair is like another to you." "Well, is there any difference?" she queried. She was very much interested in this question, for the subtleties of refined comfort held no place in her life. Knowledge of luxuries was quite outside the ken of the younger members of the Procter family. The big man said: "Yes, there is a difference; a decided difference." He was thinking of his household with its retinue of trained servants, each helping to make the days revolve smoothly. "Why aren't you at work?" asked Suzanna then. "My father works every day in the hardware store and sometimes way into the night on his invention in the attic. _He_ doesn't have a chair filled with pillows to lean against. Does God like you better than He does us?" "Eh, what's that? What do you mean?" "Because you don't have to work! And you think one chair is better than another to sit in, and you can shout at the little man and make him afraid." "Well, we'll not talk of that," said the big man testily. "And now I'll ask you a few questions. What does your mother do when rent week comes round? Cry, and throw up to your father the fact that she can't make ends meet? That's what women generally do, I've heard and read." "Oh, no, my mother doesn't do that," said Suzanna, shaking her head. "Sh
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