A young man turned to pay the cabman. Lucy sat in the back seat as the trio sped through intersections in the old sedan. Somebody ought to talk to him, warn him. It’s a tremendous blow, of course—but it doesn’t kill me. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. " "Piano-player? Do you mean someone who plays for you?" "No, no; one of those mechanical things you play with your feet.
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