"Morris, dear," she said, "you know I told you I was deadly tired.... I really am too tired to talk to-night— I feel almost ill, I'm so weary. But to-morrow I'll say everything that's in my heart.... Go to bed now, will you, like a kind darling? I ... I'm better alone when ... when I feel like this."
Loring looked at her, then down at the hearth-rug. His lips pursed.
"You'll clear this up for me to-morrow?" he asked in a sullen voice.
"Yes, dear— I promise."
"All right, then. Sorry you feel so seedy."
He went towards the door. Before he reached it his gorge rose with wounded pride and bewildered indignation. He turned his head as he went out.
"Sorry I've been guilty of blasphemy...." he said. "Loving a goddess is rather steep work at times...."
He went out, his eyes hard and resentful.
Sophy sank into her chair again. She sat looking into the fire. She remembered how they had sat hand in hand, after their first kiss, looking into another fire only a few months ago.
But this was whiskey, she reminded herself—only whiskey. She must prove to him and herself that she was stronger than a mere appetite. But as she sat there staring at the fire, it was Cecil that she thought of, more than Loring. How terrible and fatal it seemed that, twice over, she should be the rival of such things with those she loved. For her sake Cecil had set himself to conquer. Then death had taken him. But before he had died he had killed her highest love for him....