“You’ll take Winnie?” the publican’s voice interpreted from the window.
“Don’t you bother, Maud, I’ll take her,” he said, stupefying his mind so as not to understand.
He looked curiously round the room. It was not a bad bedroom, light and warm. There were many medicine bottles aggregated in a corner of the washstand—and a bottle of Three Star brandy, half full. And there were also photographs of strange people on the chest of drawers. It was not a bad room.
Again he started as if he were shot. She was speaking. He bent down, but did not look at her.
“Be good to her,” she whispered.
When he realised her meaning, that he should be good to their child when the mother was gone, a blade went through his flesh.
“I’ll be good to her, Maud, don’t you bother,” he said, beginning to feel shaky.
He looked again at the picture of the bird. It perched cheerfully under a blue sky, with robust, jolly ivy leaves near. He was gathering his courage to depart. He looked down, but struggled hard not to take in the sight of his wife’s face.
“I s’ll come again, Maud,” he said. “I hope you’ll go on all right. Is there anything as you want?”
There was an almost imperceptible shake of the head from the sick woman, making his heart melt swiftly again. Then, dragging his limbs, he got out of the room and down the stairs.