Page:The Tattooed Countess (1924).pdf/107

 Fair views, and a pressed-glass holder harbouring souvenir spoons, she had a new realization of the hopelessness of her plight. On the horse-hair couch with its stuffing sagging beneath, prone and awkward, in a position which suggested that he was an old, worn-out doll, constructed for some sinister reason by a grinning god, and now thrown aside as insufficient even for the purpose of creating more ironic mirth in a cynical world, lay her father. In this first view she understood, fully and completely, that everything was smashed: ideals, hopes, even any further attempt at living in moderate comfort. She was not strong enough to fight.

Father. . . Her tone was dull andeven. There was no rage in her voice, hardly an element of grief, not even a suggestion of reproof. . . You've been drinking again.

I'm no good, Lennie. The old man turned over, disclosing his bloodshot eyes, his matted, yellowgrey beard, his foodand drink-stained clothing. I know I'm no good, he whined.

Father, it's so hard for all of us. I work so hard for our money. . ..

I know. I don't do anything. I'm no good, no good atall. I drink up my hard-working daughter's salary, and I don't support my family. Wish I'd never been born. Ought've killed myself long ago. The old man groaned.

Father, dear! Lennie tried to soothe him.

Then, in despair, yet with a certain kind of resig-