kerchief and began to blow his nose. I didn't say a single word.
"But what's to be done?" he started again; "what's to be done . . . I tell you . . . My daughter, you know, she's very brave, she said to me this morning she could work; but she couldn't, you know; she's not been brought up to that sort of thing . . . not even type-writing . . . and so . . . we're all ruined . . . everyone of us. And I've more than fifty hands, counting Mr. Lea, and they'll all have to go. It's horrible . . . I trusted you, Granger, you know; I trusted you, and they say up there that you . . ." I turned away from him. I couldn't bear to see the bewildered fear in his eyes. "So many of us," he began again, "everyone I know . . . I told them to buy and . . . But you might have let us know. Granger, you might have. Think of my poor daughter."
I wanted to say something to the man, wanted to horribly; but there wasn't anything to say—not a word. I was sorry. I took up a paper that sprawled on one of the purple ottomans. I stood with my back to this haggard man and pretended to read.
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