only the
comfortable make-believe miseries that rustle in crepe and
shed tears--whenever there's anyone by to see."

"Like the beggars who begin to whine and exhibit their
aggravated sores as soon as a possible giver comes into view,"
said Susan. "I've learned to accept what comes, and to try to
make the best of it, whatever it is. . . . I say I've learned.
But have I? Does one ever change? I guess I was born that
sort of philosopher."

She recalled how she put the Warhams out of her life as soon
as she discovered what they really meant to her and she to
them--how she had put Jeb Ferguson out of her life--how she
had conquered the grief and desolation of the loss of
Burlingham--how she had survived Etta's going away without
her--the inner meaning of her episodes with Rod--with Freddie
Palmer----

And now this last supreme test--with her soul rising up and
gathering itself together and lifting its head in strength----

"Yes, I was born to make the best of things," she repeated.

"Then you were born lucky," sighed Clelie, who was of those
who must lean if they would not fall and lie where they fell.

Susan gave a curious little laugh--with no mirth, with a great
deal of mockery. "Do you know, I never thought so before, but
I believe you're right," said she. Again she laughed in that
queer way. "If you knew my life you'd think I was joking.
But I'm not. The fact that I've survived and am what I am
proves I was born lucky." Her tone changed, her expression
became unreadable. "If it's lucky to be born able to live.
And if that isn't luck, what is?"

She thought how Brent said she was born lucky because she had
the talent that enables one to rise above the sordidness of
that capitalism he so often denounced--the sordidness of the
lot of its slaves, the sordidness of the lot of its masters.
Brent! If it were he leaning beside her--if he and she were
coming up the bay toward the City of the Sun!

A billow of heartsick desolation surged over her.
Alone--always alone. And still alone. And always to be alone.

Garvey came aboard when the gangway was run out. He was in
black wherever black could be displayed. But the grief
shadowing his large, simple countenance had the stamp of the
genuine. And it was genuine, of the most approved enervating
kind. He had done nothing but grieve since his master's
death--had left unattended all the matters the man he loved
and grieved for would have wished put in ord