“Yes. I want you to. Your father's gone to bed, and they're all quiet over there—all worn out. Just come for a minute.”
He yielded, and when they were in the house she repeated herself with real feeling: “'All worn out!' Well, if anybody is, YOU are, Bibbs! And I don't wonder; you've done every bit of the work of it. You mustn't get down sick again. I'm going to make you take a little brandy.”
He let her have her own way, following her into the dining-room, and was grateful when she brought him a tiny glass filled from one of the decanters on the sideboard. Roscoe gloomily poured for himself a much heavier libation in a larger glass; and the two men sat, while Sibyl leaned against the sideboard, reviewing the episodes of the day and recalling the names of the donors of flowers and wreaths. She pressed Bibbs to remain longer when he rose to go, and then, as he persisted, she went with him to the front door. He opened it, and she said:
“Bibbs, you were coming out of the Vertreeses' house when we met you. How did you happen to be there?”
“I had only been to the door,” he said. “Good night, Sibyl.”
“Wait,” she insisted. “We saw you coming out.”
“I wasn't,” he explained, moving to depart. “I'd just brought Miss Vertrees home.”
“What?” she cried.
“Yes,” he said, and stepped out upon the porch, “that was it. Good night, Sibyl.”
“Wait!” she said, following him across the threshold. “How did that happen? I thought you were going to wait while those men filled the—the—” She paused, but moved nearer him insistently.