The room in which this interview took place had a sordid and miserable look. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. "Why not?" "I'll tell you," cried a deep voice from the back of the bed. Some man! And to conclude it all was the figure of her father in the doorway, giving her a last chance, his hat in one hand, his umbrella in the other, shaken at her to emphasize his point. She put her hand in his to be squeezed. At times he seemed to be claiming pity from her; at times he was threatening her with her check and exposure; at times he was boasting of his inflexible will, and how, in the end, he always got what he wanted.
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