She went downstairs, and found the fire out. That made delay. It was her own fault, of course; she had forgotten to look after it the last thing at night, and also everybody else had forgotten. Her father had gone to bed early with a neuralgic headache. He usually looked after the fire. Carey ought to have thought of it, but Carey never thought of anything but himself and his own immediate plans unless his interest was held. Cornelia found on looking for it in her haste that her stock of patience had run low; and added to this she had a stiff shoulder from washing windows, and Harry had a bad toothache, and had to hurry away to the dentist’s. Carey didn’t get up at all when he was called, and Louise and Cornelia had a rough time of it making some coffee for their father over the gas-flame. There was no time to wait for the fire, for father must catch his car at the regular time, whether he had breakfast or not. When Louise had gone off to school, and Harry, returning redolent of cloves and creosote, had also been fed and comforted and sent off with an excuse to his teacher, Cornelia wanted to sit down and cry. Suddenly the whole thing seemed a house of cards. The sordid neighborhood became more sordid than ever, the house too dingy and hopeless for words, all her plans tawdry and cheap and useless. Why try, when the result to be attained at best would be but a makeshift of poverty? To add to her misery, the morning mail brought letters of condolence from her classmates because she could not be with them at the play, and bits of news about how this and that were going wrong because she wasn’t there, and who was trying to take her place and bungling things. Suddenly Cornelia put her head down on the dining-room table in the midst of the breakfast clutter, and cried. She felt sorrier and sorrier for herself. Carey upstairs, great, big, lazy fellow, sleeping and letting her make the fire and do the work and carry the burden. He ought to be out hunting a job and helping to fill the family purse. He ought to be up and at his fireplace. She felt like going up and shaking him and telling him just how despicable he was; and she wished she could shut up the house and go off all day somewhere, and have a good time. She was tired, and she loathed the thought of washing windows and scouring the floor and getting meals. Even stencilling curtains had lost its charm.