Catherine’s lip trembled. “People doing—the things that have to be done.”
He winced. “And you’re—left alone here!” he murmured.
“I’d rather be. Mrs. Latimer has just gone. She took Jackie.”
“Do you want me to go?” he stammered.
“No—please!”
They sat there in silence for a long time. At last the solemn professional people came down from upstairs and went out, bowing gravely to Catherine. Then Mrs. Latimer returned. She looked at Stacey, first in surprise, then compassionately.
“You’d better go now, Stacey,” Catherine said. “I shall be all right. Mrs. Latimer and I must put Carter to bed. Would you like to go up and—look at Phil?”
He nodded. “Thanks!” he said, choking.
He stumbled up the stairs, went into Phil’s room, and stood there for some time, looking down at the peaceful emaciated face. Stacey was suffering acute pain and—worse than that—a deeper sense of desolation than he had yet felt. He had not dreamed that he cared so much for Phil. To have shown him so in some way! To have given something decent and human in return for Phil’s warm gentleness! The best that Stacey could do for comfort was to remember that the last time he had seen Phil he had shaken his hand at parting. Only that!
Stacey went downstairs finally and out of the house. He drove home, then sat down wearily to write a note to Whittaker thanking him for the car. He gave the note to Parker and told him to have the chauffeur take it, as soon as possible, with the car, to Whittaker’s house. He did not feel irony or bitterness or scorn of himself in doing these things. They were merely things that had to be done. He was through with proud hostility of spirit; he was beaten. But he did not say this to himself, either.