GRITTING his teeth to keep his will-power up to the task, Dad began mounting the spiral stairs that led from the big hallway to the upper regions of the house. He leaned heavily on the mahogany banisters on one side, and as lightly as possible on the little lady’s black bombazine shoulder upon the other.
Once or twice dizziness again overcame him. But he forced it back.
They reached the upper hall. Dad would have stopped, but his inexorable guide urged him on.
Down the hall they went, and at the farther end came to a door that she unlocked and opened. Before them rose a shorter, narrower, steeper flight of steps.
A herculean struggle brought Dad to the summit of these. Around him were dim spaces, vaguely redolent of old lavender. Somewhere near bees were sleepily booming and crooning.
His eyes growing used to the dim light, he saw that he was in a huge garret—a garret wherein were strewn quaint bits of bygone furniture, horse-hide trunks, ghostly garments in white muslin wrappings, and broken-down household goods of every description.
“Sit there!” ordered the little lady, thrusting him gently into the depths of a soft, old armchair whose upholstery was shamelessly moth-eaten.
“Now,” as he gratefully followed her command, “just stay there till I come back.”
She vanished.
Dad stared after her in dull wonder. His mind was still hazy. He knew he had fainted momentarily through loss of blood. But he wondered that he had since then felt no weaker as the minutes had gone on. Gingerly he unwound the coat from his injured arm and rolled up the sleeve of his shirt.