simulated little cough of abstraction, which entirely gave her away.

Mrs. Harrington chose to ignore Luke's taunt.

"And," she inquired sweetly, "what do you intend to do now?"

Quite suddenly the boy turned on her.

"I intend," he cried, "to make my own life--whatever it may be. If
I am starving I will not come to you. If half-a-crown would save
me, I would rather die than borrow it from you. You think that you
can buy everything with your cursed money. You can't buy me. You
can't buy a FitzHenry. You--you can't--"

He gave a little sob, remembered his new manhood--that sudden,
complete manhood which comes of sorrow--pulled himself up, and
walked to the door. He opened it, turned once and glanced at his
brother, and passed out of the room.

So Luke FitzHenry passed out into his life--a life which he was to
make for himself. Passionate--quick to love, to hate, to suffer;
deep in his feeling, susceptible to ridicule or sarcasm--an orphan.
The stairs were dark as he went down them.

Mrs. Harrington gave a little laugh as the door closed behind him.
She had always been able to repurchase the friendship of her
friends.

Fitz made a few steps towards the door before her voice arrested
him. "Stop!" she cried.