somewhere within that pretty head of hers.

"Yes," she was saying. "They have never to worry, as long as they
live, over mere bread and butter. Dick is most generous, and, rather
immoral, in his encouragement of idleness on the part of men like
them. It's a funny place, as you'll find out until you come to
understand us. They... they are appurtenances, and--and hereditaments,
and such things. They will be with us always until we bury them or
they bury us. Once in a while one or another of them drifts away--for
a time. Like the cat, you know. Then it costs Dick real money to get
them back. Terrence, there--Terrence McFane--he's an epicurean
anarchist, if you know what that means. He wouldn't kill a flea. He
has a pet cat I gave him, a Persian of the bluest blue, and he
carefully picks her fleas, not injuring them, stores them in a vial,
and turns them loose in the forest on his long walks when he tires of
human companionship and communes with nature.

"Well, only last year, he got a bee in his bonnet--the alphabet. He
started for Egypt--without a cent, of course--to run the alphabet down
in the home of its origin and thereby to win the formula that would
explain the cosmos. He got as far as Denver, traveling as tramps
travel, when he mixed up in some I. W. W. riot for free speech or
something. Dick had to hire lawyers, pay fines, and do just about
everything to get him safe home again.

"And the one with a beard--Aaron Hancock. Like Terrence, he won't
work. Aaron's a Southerner. Says none of his people ever did work, and
that there have always been peasants and fools who just couldn't be
restrained from working. That's why he wears a beard. To shave, he
holds, is unnecessary work, and, therefore, immoral. I remember, at