But Angelica did help thinking so. She didn’t believe that Mrs. Russell was that sort of bad woman, and the longer she knew her the more convinced she became of her perfect goodness in this one respect. Capable of the most outrageous follies, selfish, hard as flint, quite without scruples in the pursuit of her own liberty and pleasure, she was, however, not interested in men. Angelica said nothing, though, for she had no proofs or surmises to bring forward, nothing but her own instinct. Annie continued. "No, I can’t help thinking so. I’m no fool. I’ve seen a lot--you do, working out. It’s a pity, too, on account of Mr. Eddie. He’s a nice young man, and he works himself sick for the lot of them. No one doing a stroke of work but him!" "Don’t that doctor work?" "Dr. Russell? He’s a regular old grafter, that’s what _he_ is." "I saw him putting cigars in his pocket," said Angelica. "I’ve seen worse than that. I’ve seen him going through _her_ bureau drawers, and taking anything he has a fancy for. He’ll come down with a flask, fill it with anything that’s left in the decanters, and take it up-stairs and drink until he falls asleep on the floor. They say it’s terrible bad to drink things all mixed together like that." "Does he know about her carrying on?" "He don’t care, so long as he’s got a good home and a little money to spend. I never saw such people in all my life! And they never have any decent company. Mrs. Geraldine----” "Why do they call her Mrs. Geraldine?" "Because that’s her name," said Annie, surprised. "That used to be Mrs. Russell’s name. It’s Mr. Eddie’s and Mr. Vincent’s name. Didn’t you know?" "It’s a queer name," Angelica remarked thoughtfully. "I thought it was her first name." Nothing in the universe seemed specially queer to Annie. "Well, as I was saying, Mrs. Geraldine, she hasn’t any friends, except out West, and Mr. Eddie, he hasn’t got any time to make any, and there’s no one ever comes here but _her_ lot from that country club--a lot of swearing, drinking, smoking men and women. She fills the house with them, and then Mr. Eddie’ll make a great row and say he won’t put up with them, and then she’ll smile, that superior way, and say, ‘Very well, Eddie, it’s your house!’ Then, when she thinks he’s kind of forgotten, she’ll have them in again." "But what’s the other feller like?" asked Angelica. "Him!" cried Annie. "Why!" she was at a loss for words to express what she felt. "He’s----” She hesitated. "He’s _crazy_, and downright wicked. They call him religious. Sacrilegious, I call it. Every once in a while he’ll get a fit of feeling sorry for his wickedness, and he’ll be moaning and groaning about his soul, and working himself up to write his religious poems. Why," she cried, "it’s as different from the real repentance of a sinner, such as I’ve seen many and many a time in our meetings, as can be. He’s never seen the light, and he never will. He’s lost!"