If he had left me but his watch, a trinket from his chain, a book, a picture- Only recently Mr. Healey had had a daguerreotype taken of himself, and had had it artfully colored, and it stood on his desk. Joseph wondered if Mr. Spaulding would permit him to buy it. He felt the familiar dull aching in his throat. He pushed back his chair, then waited for others to rise, also. There was a smarting in his eyes and a dryness in his mouth. The small scraping of his chair aroused Mr. Spaulding from his devout reverie. No one else but Joseph had moved. Joseph subsided. Mr. Spaulding, to his surprise, was fixedly gazing at him as at a wonder, a miracle, a sight not to be believed. He seemed in a state of transport. Now Mr. Spaulding's voice rose as on a radiant crest. "We now come to the Major Legatee mentioned in this last Will and Testament of my beloved friend, Edward Cullen Healey." Long breaths were taken in the room, except for Joseph, who felt nothing but impatience now, nothing but a desire to leave, to feel his hurt alone, and, he thought vaguely, to run back to the house and steal the daguerreotype. (Surely no one wanted it but himself, and Mr. Spaulding's natural malice would be delighted to refuse any offer from him and cut him with any disappointment and frustration.) Mr. Spaulding leaned forward in his chair. He had the attention of all, except for Joseph. Then Joseph heard his name-"my dear young friend, my son in all but birth, my countryman, who has so often shown me his affection and loyalty-though he did not know this himself-Joseph Francis Xavier Armagh-" A deep murmur ran through the office, and every head turned and every eye stared at Joseph, whose mouth opened in a muttered, "What? What?" ' Mr. Spaulding rose slowly and majestically, like Neptune rising from the sea, royal sceptre in hand. Mr. Spaulding came from behind his desk. He went weightily down the rows of chairs. He paused beside Joseph. His eyes were filled with shining liquid. He held out his hand, and bowed. "My felicitations, Mr. Francis," he said, "or, I should say, Mr. Armagh." Joseph was stunned. He had heard nothing but his name and a few other words. He did not want to touch Mr. Spaulding's hand but thinking of that portrait on the desk in Mr. Healcy's study he forced himself to take the warm damp fingers. He said, "All I want is that daguerreotype, on his desk, in the gilt frame. I will pay for it-" At that everyone in the room burst into loud and affectionate laughter. Harry leaned towards Joseph and slapped him heartily on the back, recovering from his own stunned disbelief. Even Mr. Spaulding smiled tenderly, bent down to place his hand gently on Joseph's thin shoulder. Great grins spread from face to face, and Joseph's words were repeated over and over, to renewed laughter. "All that, and all else too, my dear boy," Mr. Spaulding said. "An Empire. A mountain of gold." It was indeed. Joseph Francis Xavier Armagh was the Major Legatee of Edward Cullen Healey. Mr. Healey's vast "interests" now belonged to him, "without let or hindrance." Brothels. Refineries. Saloons. Newspaper mortgages. Property in Pittsburgh, Titusville, Boston, New York, Philadelphia. Wells. Endless investments. Enormous sums of money in various banks. A hotel, flourishing, in Philadelphia. Mines. Investments in several lavish hotels in New York, stocks, bonds in countless industries, including munitions and railroads. He was the sole executor, though the assistance of Mr. Spaulding-at a large annual fee-was designated. "I don't believe it," said Joseph, and he looked about him and the room swam in a shifting mist and the sunlight seemed to dance in the confines of the windows and the blue sky beyond tilted dizzily. He had brilliantly enlarged visions of his brother and sister, of Sister Elizabeth, of Green Hills, and he thought, over and over, that he had lost his mind. Someone was pressing a glass of whiskey against his mouth. He drank it, dumbly. He stared at the head in front of him, and saw every hair on it ensheathed in too-vivid light, and the eyes looking at him were the eyes of a Cyclops. He saw Mr. Montrose's face floating in front of him, dreamlike, wavering. He felt the hard clasp of Harry's hand. His own was cold and sweating. Then he had an awful impulse to burst into tears.
"I don't believe it," he repeated, helplessly, over and over. His hand was shaken by others. He heard voices. He closed his eyes and hid in the darkness for a while.
Chapter 26
Mary Regina Armagh stood in a thick scattering of blood-red oak leaves and surveyed the great white house before her. She said, "But, Joe, it's very big, isn't it, for just three people, and Sean will be going to Harvard. Then, only two will be there." "Now, Regina," said Joseph in the special voice which was only for her, gentle and firm and paternal, "there will be servants. You know the Ilcnnessey house yonder, with the maids and the butler and the stable boys, and it is only for two, for the senator is rarely there." The girl lifted her shining regard to her brother. "Can you afford it, Joe? It must be very expensive." He kept his face grave. "I can afford it, my love. You mustn't trouble yourself. I am no spendthrift." Regina said, looking down at the autumn-littered earth, "You've worked so hard for us, Joe. You've sacrificed for us and given us all you could, even when it meant depriving yourself. I should hate myself if I thought you built this house for us and it meant worry and more work for you." "I think," said Sean, "that Joe knows what he's doing. He always did." The lilting voice was touched, in its music, with a faint note of malice. He was as tall as his brother, at nearly nineteen, but sinuous and gracefully swaying in all his motions, and, to Joseph, disgustingly poetic in appearance. He resembled his father, Daniel Armagh, too acutely in appearance, except that he did not have the apparent physical strength even of Daniel. He was pale and smooth of countenance, with his very large light blue eyes beguiling and coaxing-(except when he was with Joseph, and then they became doubtful and a little glaucous)-the most aristocratic and perfect features, a beautiful smiling mouth with fine teeth, and an air of impeccable breeding and elegance. His bright golden hair curled over his smooth forehead, about his ears and down to his nape and it also rose to a tumbling crest high on his head, which Joseph disagreeably called Byronic. To Joseph, Sean did not appear Irish at all-as neither had Daniel Armagh -but pure Anglo-Saxon, and he had to admit to himself that that was at least part of the reason he frequently felt stern towards his brother. But then, were not the Irish-an originally dark Celtic race-heavily mixed also with Seandinavian blood, in particular Norwegian and Danish? Joseph preferred the Irish type mixed with the Spanish, who were excessively proud, dark of hair and eye, coldly combative and brooding. He was also convinced they were more intelligent. Sean did not seem to be intelligent to his brother. He was "light-minded." In short he liked to laugh and sing and be merry-as Daniel Armagh had liked, also, and he was too charming, too pleasant, too gay, too cheerful for Joseph. If Sean ever had a somber thought it was not evident. He loved to live, as had Mr. Healey, but not in Mr. Healey's earthy and robust fashion. Sean's love of life indicated itself in happy jesting, in frequent laughter, in poetry, in music, in art, in tender glances and interest, in delight at the very spectacle of existence. All this Joseph found more than a little reprehensible and trivial and womanish. Sean also liked to dress, as Joseph called it, "as colorfully as a peacock, at my expense." In short, Sean found all the graceful amenities of life, all its graciousness, all its light and color and symmetry and contour, all its urbane and civilizing elements, endlessly fascinating, endlessly delicious and worthy of worship. He had known the austerity of poverty in the orphanage but had apparently considered it but a dreary interlude which had nothing to do with real life at all, and sometimes he even thought that Joseph had been remiss in not rescuing his family earlier from the ugliness of poverty. (How Joseph could have managed that Sean never considered. It was enough that Joseph had "promised," and not been able to keep his promise immediately. The realities of life were far from Sean Paul Armagh, and were to remain so.) But he was also very sensitive, "like a silly girl," Joseph would think, and lavish and generous. It was in Regina that Joseph found a little joy and delight. At barely fourteen she was a woman in mind and soul, though her body was only in puberty. Sean's experiences had been hers, but hers had entered her sou] and her ponderings, and she was never to forget them nor their portentousness and dark meaning. This gave her a love
ly gravity, a sweetness and depth of temperament worthy of a wise woman, a touching kindness in word, glance, and deed, a habit of reflection, a love of study, a frequent desire for solitude and contemplation, an earnestness and honesty of outlook which often startled her elders who suddenly forgot she was only a young girl and thereafter talked with her as with an adult. She had lived an immured life, but her mind seemed large and experienced, for she read as Joseph had always read, and with minute attention and awareness. She knew more of life than did Sean, but it distressed her that Joseph's bitter eyes would sometimes fasten on Sean with disgust and even with aversion. Surely dear Joe understood that Sean must be protected and cherished? Surely dear Joe knew that Sean would always be a child? The girl had no memory of her father, but often she thought that Daniel must have been like this, gay and happy and eternally believing in an even brighter tomorrow. At this thought Regina would sigh. What did one do with men who never became men in spirit? Despise them, hate them? Never. One could only enjoy the color and vivacity they brought to life, and never demand anything of them at all but music and beauty. Like a butterfly, thought Regina. Like a flower. Like birdsong. But were these not valuable also? The world would be infinitely uglier without them, though poor Joe called them parasites. It was unfortunate that they did not possess their own means of sustenance, as did butterflies, flowers and birds, but had to depend on more vigorous others for their existence. If those vigorous others rebelled at parasitism, they were justified, for as Sister Elizabeth had firmly taught, "All tubs must stand on their own bottoms." Regina thought that such as Sean were not made of sturdy wood, but moonlight, and it certainly had no "bottoms!" They could only dance in the air, their wings like rainbows. Regina knew that Sister Elizabeth had often written Joseph about Sean, with tactful pleadings, though Sister Elizabeth had too much common .sense to countenance parasitism or those she called "perpetual whining I Poor Souls." But Sister Elizabeth knew the realities of life, and Sean was j one of those realities, and so had to be dealt with. She therefore had written letters to Joseph pleading for Sean-not that she approved of the youth-but in truth to make the lives of the brothers a little easier for both. Sean was Sean, and so he had been born, and not even the direst circumstances would ever be able to change him from a lissome young man to a stern man of business and the dealer with the iron truths. "Perhaps," Sister Elizabeth had once said to the young girl, "he will marry a rich woman who will adore him, and not expect anything from him but love, pleasing attentions, tenderness and laughter. If Joseph fails to be tolerant of him it will be tragic for both of them." For Sister Elizabeth also knew that Joseph had come to despise and hate the father who had brought his family to destitution and death. Regina, then, as subtly and as tactfully as she could, stood between the two brothers, the grim and resolute Joseph and the bewildered butterfly who could not understand his brother, and so had to take refuge, in defense, in a light malice, little laughs-and avoidance. Of the two, Regina pitied Joseph the more, a sentiment which would not have pleased the sentimental but of which Sister Elizabeth would have approved. She also pitied Scan, so easily wounded, so easily baffled when others failed to laugh with him or appreciate his jokes or his beautiful singing voice and his ardent involvement with beauty. The three stood near the large white-brick and pillared house which Joseph had built for his family near the larger and more ostentatious house of Senator Hennessey. It had taken nearly two years to build, and it stood on a slight rise on ten acres of immaculately landscaped grounds, all groups of trees on plushy grass and gardens and conservatories and summer houses and gazebos. A little brook flowed on the property, and it, too, had been brought into order, with primroses planted on its banks, and summer lilies, and iris and young willows. The house was ready for its occupants. Much time had gone into the ordering and choosing of furniture, rugs and draperies and pictures. Joseph knew that he had no taste for such things, and so, at the urging of Regina-he could never deny her anything-had permitted his sister to ask the aid of the ailing Katherine Hennessey, who loved her. Katherine, during those months, had come to life with this new interest, and asked Joseph only how much he desired to spend, and when he said, "Anything at all, so long as it is appropriate and the best of its kind," she was delighted and invigorated. Her taste was marvelous, yet not exclusively feminine, except when it came to Regina's rooms. There was not a vista which did not entrance and invite, and this was evident even to Joseph's eyes. He loved to walk about his house, when it was being decorated and furnished, and never interfered, but his own rooms were austere, almost bare, containing only essentials even if those were rich and choice. "Monks' cells," Scan had remarked to Regina. His own quarters' furnishings had been of his choosing, and were airy and beautiful and excelled the taste even of Katherine Hennessey, who admired him and, looking at her young daughter, shyly thought of him as Bernadette's husband. He was so lovable, so kind. Catherine would sigh, remembering a husband who was neither, but whom she could only helplessly love. She thought Joseph the kindest and most masculine and most admirable of men, for with her he was all consideration and he had a way of looking at her which warmed and made her feel a faint stirring of happiness. She did not know that it was because she was cherished and loved by this ironic and gloomy-faced young man, and that her every word, her every gesture, the way she walked, the soft sweetness of her laugh, her glance and her smile, was an occasion for his terrible and brooding adoration, and his even more terrible despair. He had bought the land for his house for the one reason that it was near her own, and that at least he would see her occasionally if only at a distance. He knew that if Katherine ever guessed what he thought of her she would never see him again, and so he was careful. This was not too hard. He had had to be careful all his life. "Yes," said Joseph today, as he stood with his brother and sister and looked at his blazingly white new house, "it is as Sean says. I know what I am doing, and I always did." fit was autumn and trees roared and crackled in a bright and nimble wind, and the brilliantly green grass was littered with drifts of scarlet, gold and brown and umber. The slate roof of the compact Georgian house shimmered in the sparkling sun. The pillars were snowy and sturdy. The paths were of red gravel. The stables behind awaited horses and carriages. The polished windows gleamed. Brasses glittered. There were swaths of gray, blue, rose, gold, and silver at every window, and the bronze doors were golden in their newness. It now needed only horses for the fine stables and carriages and pony carts for Regina, and servants. Katherine Hennessey was arranging for the servants, a housekeeper, maids, a butler, a cook, and stable boys, and gardeners. In a week from today Joseph and his family would take up their residence. Two years ago he had moved Regina and Sean to his hotel in Titusville. Mr. Healey's house was up for sale. Joseph would spend at least two days a week in Titusville attending to his business, but he would live at the new American Hotel, which he owned. "I love our house," said Regina, who was clad in the seal jacket and muff and hat which Joseph had bought for her. Her draped silk dress billowed in the sharp and pungent wind. "I shall be happy to live in it with you, Joe, dear." She looked up at him with her deep purplish-blue eyes, and he thought that such beauty was incredible and something, perhaps, to be feared. Her long glossy black curls flowed down her back, far below her waist. Her brow was like the whitest china, never disturbed by a frown. Her features were pale but translucent, as if light not blood passed , through them. Her mouth expressed nothing but seriousness, gentle thoughts, and contemplation. My darling, Joseph thought, as always. My dearest darling. "I hope you are going to let me have the garden you promised," said Sean . "Not one of these ordered and plucked monstrosities. Something free and wild." "Right in back, where the beehives are, and I hope they sting the hell out of you," said Joseph. But he put his hand on Sean's shoulder, and Sean became still and did not shrug off the hand of which he was afraid. "You can plant all the flowers you want," said Joseph. "There will be a pretty fence to hide them." "Now, Joe," said Regina, and she took her brother's hand and
pressed it and he was weakened and vaguely ashamed. Perhaps, he thought, he was somewhat too hard on Sean, who irritated him to the point of explosion on occasion. He was beginning to realize that Sean feared him-this insulted and puzzled him-and that instead of Sean drawing closer to him he was retreating in smiling silence and nervousness. For whom had he lived, but these two, the brother and sister he had loved and protected with a ferocity that even he sometimes thought of as too intense? He had given them his life, and all the force and strength and power of his life, and had gone hungry, in his youth, so that they would be fed. This house had been built for them, to provide them with luxurious shelter and pleasure. He had stolen for them. Perhaps, in some way, he had killed for them. He had not held his own life as valuable. His life, he had thought since he was thirteen, belonged to Regina and Sean, and not himself. Only they had made it worthy of keeping. He had fought the world in order to give it to them, tamed, full of gifts and joy and security. As for himself, life had held nothing. He had endured, so that they might have leisure, hope, education, freedom from the terror that had haunted his whole young life. Yet-he was always catching, these days, Sean's large blue eyes fixed on him with a peculiar and even hostile expression, which changed immediately to a smile. Then Sean would say something in a jest, or leave the room. Joseph was left with a sensation of furious bereavement, and perplexity. Sometimes he thought: A man gives his life for his family and stops at nothing, and the family is not grateful. Often, it despises. I gave my family not only my life, but all the love and devotion of which I am capable. Do they understand? Or, in a twisted way, do they think they are entitled to all this, for which I labored and gave up my own youth? It was only when Regina came to him, silently, touching his hand, kissing his cheek, her eyes filled with a mysterious light, that he felt comforted, reassured. He had the strangest feeling that she understood everything he thought in his moments of misery. She would even, at her age, climb on his knee as she had done as a young child and put her arms about his neck and kiss him softly, and hold him as a mother holds a son, protecting him from pain, calling to him that she was there and would not leave him. Once he asked her with his cold abruptness, "What's wrong with Sean?" She had thought for a moment, and then she had said, "He is afraid that you think he is foolish, or something, and not serious. He has never told me. It is just something I have felt, Joe. He is truly grateful to you; he knows what you have done for us. But you, in some way, will not let him tell you. He is not strong as you are strong, Joe. You have a very sharp way of speaking. Sean is now a man, not a little boy. You are not his father. Treat him as a respected brother and not one you believe has no wits at all." "But, he has no wits," said Joseph, and then he smiled. "He has his own wits," said Regina, and for one of few times Joseph was impatient with her. A man was a man, or he was not a man. Daniel Armagh had not been a man. Today, they went back to the Hospice, where they were staying for a few days. Very shortly they would move into the house on Willoughby Road. Sean and Regina would not see Titusville again, in its uproarious venality and noise and vigilantes and confusion and vicious characters. For some reason which Joseph was never to understand Sean had found it exciting, in spite of his delicate airs and elegance. He had taken a great fancy to Mr. Montrose, and Mr. Montrose appeared to have affection for him, something else which vexed and confused Joseph. (Mr. Montrose had left for Virginia a year ago.) Sean, in Titusville, was alert and glowing and interested. He even went out to the oil fields. He would walk the crowded and noisy streets with an air of delight. He had attached himself to Harry Zeff and his young wife, Liza, with happy devotion. (Harry was now, to Joseph, what Mr. Montrose had been to Mr. Healey.) Harry seemed to like him and enjoy his company. He would listen to Sean when he sang Irish ballads, and applaud with enthusiasm. "Why don't you teach him to be a man in the raw business of life, Harry?" Joseph once asked. "There are many ways of being a man, Joe," said Harry. "He's feckless and a milksop." Harry and Liza had built a house for themselves in Titusville which decorously followed the fashion of old and established residences. They had urged Joseph to stay with them when he was in Titusville, but he preferred the solitude of his hotel. Besides, the distant cries of Harry's infant twin sons annoyed Joseph. Liza had the delusion of the common born: she believed everyone was interested in her offspring and would interrupt Joseph and Harry, when they were in her house, by triumphantly ^bringing the squalling little boys into Harry's "study." Even Harry, the perpetually good-natured, would have to order her to leave, which made her cry. Joseph liked Liza and remembered her days of brutality in Mr. Healey's house. But she was now comparatively rich, and had nursemaids, and the intrusion was unpardonable. "Why don't you get married?" Harry Zeff asked his friend. The very thought was repugnant to Joseph. His old habit of considering his sister and his brother intruded on him. "I have seen no woman as yet," he said, "that I would want to marry." He thought of {Catherine Hennessey. Then Harry said, watching him, "You are a multimillionaire now, Joe. Who is going to get your money? Your sister? She will probably marry, herself. Your brother-" And Harry paused, more keenly watching him. Sean. Sean would go to Harvard. Then, what would he do? Would Harvard make a responsible man of him, serious, determined to succeed? Would it change his character, make it resolute and strong? Joseph thought, and he was appalled. He knew that men never changed their nature. The three Armaghs moved into their new house, which now contained its full staff of servants, and were accompanied by Regina's governess, a young lady who had been rigorously convent-trained, and Sean's tutor. (The latter had been chosen from applicants in Boston, a young man named Timothy Dineen, whom Joseph had liked for his serious appearance, his maturity, and his firm understanding of what was important in life, such as fortitude, courage, intelligence, learning, and manliness. Joseph hoped that Timothy would impart some of his principles to Sean but so far the result had not been one for enthusiasm.) Sister Elizabeth had selected Regina's governess, a Miss Kathleen Faulk, whose mother was known to the old nun. "I want no pieties in this house," Joseph had told the young woman and Timothy from the start. "Keep your holy water, your medals, your crucifixes, your pious literature and your holy pictures, in your own quarters, and do not intrude them elsewhere." Timothy, who was fearless, and several years younger than Joseph, said, "Mr. Armagh, may I enquire, then, why you chose Catholics for your sister and your brother?" In spite of himself Joseph gave his hard-lipped smile. "I don't want them to be out of their element-yet. It might confuse them. As for Miss Regina, she is very religious and I never interfere with one's religion. It would make her unhappy to deprive her of what she has always known. Sean -there is muscle in your religion, Mr. Dineen, as well as sentimentality and statues in sickly colors. Endurance. Fearlessness. Respect for authority and education. Masculinity. Awareness of living. Strength. I've known many old priests-" He paused, and Timothy held his own mouth still. "They had what we call fortitude, and faced a Sassenagh with a gun with nothing but their breviaries in their own hands and shouted him down for the sake of a child or a helpless woman." Again he paused, remembering, and the dark Celtic gloom deepened on his face and the younger man felt a confused pity. "So," said Joseph, "try to put some steel into the backbone of your pupil, Mr. Dineen, and make him a little worthy of the brave men who died for him." Such as yourself, poor devil, thought young Timothy, who had had the good fortune to be born "lace-curtain" Irish, and whose grandfather had come to America long before the Famine and with a sturdy trade in his hands. Miss Kathleen Faulk was a pallid fair young woman, very thin but durable, with a large nose and light eyes and an air of competence. She was very tall, much taller than Timothy Dineen, who had a quick but squarish look, solid and compact, obvious muscles and vitality and health, and very deep black eyes and a rolling mass of black hair. He looked like a pugilist, rather than a scholar, and had been taught by the Jesuits and had few illusions left, as he would remark. He wore spectacles on his snubbed nose and his mouth was strong and pink and a little inflexible. Miss Faulk, w
ho earnestly desired to be married, had considered Timothy at once, even though his head did come only to the height of her nostrils, but he continued to show no interest. Now horses were quartered in the stables, and carriages, traps and buggies, all of the best quality, and exotic plants were already blooming, this chill November day, in the glass conservatories, and warm fires burned on brown, blue, white, rose, and purplish marble hearths all over the big fcbright house. Joseph had ordered that the servants' quarters under the j eaves be made as comfortable and pleasant as possible, and he gave them £xcellcnt wages and was courteous to them, and they marveled and were Lhappy and did all they could to please the somber Master on his return {from his affairs in Titusville, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, Boston, New York, and in other cities. "We must have a party!" said Sean to his sister after they had been ^installed in their new house for a month and the first snow was falling. "We must ask Joe," said Regina. "Joe?" said Sean. "You know what he would say, Ginny. No." "He knows we can't live alone," said the girl. "He has told me to make friends. I know a lot of the girls in the convent. They would be so pleased jto be invited here, with a few of the Sisters." Sean was aghast. "That ugly mass of tatterdemalions! Joe would give the back of his hand to them, and so would I. I never want to think of that orphanage again. Ginny, you know how I detest their ugliness and poverty and smells-I never could stand them. Their very presence here would depress me beyond describing." Regina was horrified. She knew that Sean shrank from the sight of suffering, and everything morbid and wretched and unbeautiful, but she had endured the same deprivations and the same unlovely scenes, and thought of the orphanage, now, with compassion and sadness and a hope that she might be able to persuade Joseph to make life there brighter and more bearable. "They would remind me," said Sean, with real distress, "of all those terrible years we had to spend there, for no fault of our own. And we waited, and waited, all that time, for Joe to keep his promise. I had just about given up hope- He could have done it sooner." He tossed back his golden hair in a gesture of remembered misery and resentment. "He must have wasted a lot of time. He could have done it sooner." "He could not have done it sooner!" said Regina. "How can you be so cruel, Sean? Sister Elizabeth has told me what Joe suffered, and how he worked for us-" She could not continue for fear of bursting out crying. For one of the rare times in her tranquil life she felt the sharp edge of uncontrollable anger and indignation. "Very well," said Sean. "I am grateful, and you know it, Ginny, and I don't like the peculiar way you are staring at me now. It is just that I cannot even endure the very thought of those-people. The orphanage. Our party must be made up of better specimens." "Richer, more fortunate, perhaps?" said Regina and her young voice held its first bitterness, its first contempt, and Sean looked at her uneasily and wondered what had happened to his benign and thoughtful sister and her understanding. Regina thought: I believed that Sean had the kindest and tenderest of hearts, and perhaps he has though I don't know any longer. Perhaps he is one of those who cannot bear the sight of ugliness or pain or despair, not out of cruelty or hardness but out of a fear of them and because they offend his eye. Sean said, "Very well, Ginny, I'm sorry I hurt your feelings. But I can't help what I feel, dear. I never want even to think of that orphanage again, where we were caged like beasts." His melodious voice rose passionately. "Can't you understand, Ginny? I don't care about new friends being richer or more fortunate, as you called them. I just want to know people who are different from those we have known. Is that so heartless, so incomprehensible?" Regina bent her head and a long black curtain of her hair fell over her face and half hid it. "I will ask Joe," she said. She stood up and left the luxurious breakfast room where she and Sean had been eating, and Sean watched her go, hurt and somewhat perplexed, and with a feeling that his sister had betrayed him.