Free Ideal by Ayn Rand Page A

stay up late worrying.”
    â€œWell, so long, folks,” said Chuck Fink, climbing into his car. “Cheer up and keep smiling. The darkest hour is just before the silver lining.”
    Mrs. Eustace Hennessey wondered why Melissa staggered uncertainly, getting into the car, as if she had trouble finding the door.
    Mr. and Mrs. Jeremiah Sliney stood in the road and watched the three little red lights bumping away, low over the ground, in a soft cloud of dust.
    Then they went back into the house, and Jeremiah Sliney locked the door.
    â€œOh my!” sighed Mrs. Sliney. “It’s the poorhouse for us, Pa.”
    They had blown out the lights and pulled the blinds over the windows, and Mrs. Sliney in her limp flannel nightgown was ready to climb into bed, when she stopped suddenly, stretching her head forward, listening.
    â€œPa,” she whispered, alarmed.
    Jeremiah Sliney pulled the blanket from over his head.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œPa, d’you hear?”
    â€œNo. Hear what?”
    â€œSounds . . . sounds like someone was coming here.”
    â€œNonsense, Ma. Some rabbit, most like . . .”
    A hand knocked at the door.
    â€œLord in heaven!” whispered Mrs. Sliney.
    Jeremiah Sliney fumbled for his slippers, threw an old coat over his shoulders, and shuffled resolutely to the door.
    â€œWho’s there?” he asked.
    â€œOpen the door, please,” a low feminine voice whispered.
    Jeremiah Sliney opened the door.
    â€œWhat can I do for . . . Oh, Lord!” he finished, gasping, when he saw a pale face under a black hat, a face he recognized at once.
    â€œI am Kay Gonda, Mr. Sliney,” said the woman in black.
    â€œWell, as I live and breathe!” said Jeremiah Sliney.
    â€œCan you let me in?”
    â€œCan I let you in? Can I let you in? Well, I’ll be a— Come right in, ma’am, right, right in. . . . Ma! Oh, Ma! Come here! Oh Lord!”
    He threw the door wide-open. She entered and closed it cautiously. Mrs. Sliney trudged in and froze on the threshold, her hands fluttering, her mouth wide-open.
    â€œMa!” gasped Jeremiah Sliney. “Ma, can you believe it? This here is Kay Gonda, the pichur star, herself!”
    Mrs. Sliney nodded, her eyes wide, unable to utter a sound.
    â€œI’m running away,” said Kay Gonda. “Hiding. From the police. I have no place to go.”
    â€œOh Lord! Oh Lord Almighty!”
    â€œYou heard about me, haven’t you?”
    â€œHave I heard? Why, who hasn’t heard? Why, them papers said . . .”
    â€œIt was . . . murder!” whispered Mrs. Sliney, choking.
    â€œMay I stay here for the night?”
    â€œHere?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYe mean—right here?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œGood God! Why . . . why, certainly, ma’am. Why, of course! Why, it’s an honor ye’re doing us and . . . and . . .”
    â€œIt’s an honor, ma’am,” said Mrs. Sliney, curtseying.
    â€œThank you,” said Kay Gonda.
    â€œOnly,” muttered Jeremiah Sliney, “only how did ye ever . . . I mean, how could ye . . . I mean, why would ye, of all places?”
    â€œI had your letter. And no one would ever find me here.”
    â€œMy . . . letter?”
    â€œYes. The letter you wrote me.”
    â€œOh Lord, that? You got it?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd ye read it?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd ye . . . ye came here? To hide?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWell, will miracles ever cease! Why, make yerself to home, ma’am. Take your hat off. Sit down. Don’t ye worry. No one will find ye here all right. And if any cops come nosing about, why, I have a shotgun, that’s what I have! Make yerself to—”
    â€œWait a minute, Pa,” said Mrs. Sliney, “that’s not the way. Miss Gonda is