‘Very likely,’ said the assistant, towelling his hands.
‘I’ll go now,’ said Norah MacMulty. ‘I’m a trifle unsteady with the shakin’, but the drink’s out of me, worse luck! and I’ll be able to walk.’
‘No calling at the Grapes, mind you,’ said the assistant ‘You’d better look in at the infirmary about eleven o’clock to-morrow.’
‘I’ll do that,’ she answered. ‘Will ye be lendin’ me your shoulder as far as the dure, young man? I’ll be better in a minute.’
Paul did as she requested, but he crawled with repulsion beneath her hand. The touch inspired him with loathing. He had lived a sheltered life, and had never seen an open abandonment to shame. He wondered why God allowed the degraded thing to live, and his heart ached with pity at the same time. He led her to the door, and then across the road. The assistant sent a curt ‘Good-night’ after him. He answered it, and the door dosed.
‘Can you walk alone now?’ he asked.
‘I’ll try,’ she said, and made a staggering attempt at it.
Paul caught her, or she would have fallen.
‘Take my arm,’ he said to her, hardening his heart with an effort.
He blessed the darkness and the quiet of the street, but before they had gone a score of yards a door opened in a house he knew, and Armstrong came out of it.