When Spenser came, about two hours later, and turned on the light in their bedroom, she was in the bed, apparently asleep. He stood staring with theatric self-consciousness at himself in the glass for several minutes, then sat down before the bureau and pulled out the third drawer—where he kept collars, ties, handkerchiefs, gloves and a pistol concealed under the handkerchiefs. With the awful solemnity of the youth who takes himself—and the theater—seriously he lifted the pistol, eyed it critically, turning it this way and that as if interested in the reflections of light from the bright cylinder and barrel at different angles. He laid it noiselessly back, covered it over with the handkerchiefs, sat with his fingers resting on the edge of the drawer. Presently he moved uneasily, as a man—on the stage or in its amusing imitation called civilized life among the self-conscious classes—moves when he feels that someone is behind him in a "crucial moment."
He slowly turned round. She had shifted her position so that her face was now toward him. But her eyes were closed and her face was tranquil. Still, he hoped she had seen the little episode of the pistol, which he thought fine and impressive. With his arm on the back of the chair and supporting that resolute-looking chin of his, he stared at her face from under his thick eyebrows, so thick that although they were almost as fair as his hair they seemed dark. After a while her eyelids fluttered and lifted to disclose eyes that startled him, so intense, so sleepless were they.
"Kiss me," she said, in her usual sweet, tender way—a little shyness, much of passion's sparkle and allure. "Kiss me."
"I've often thought," said he, "what would I do if I should go smash, reach the end of my string? Would I kill you before taking myself off? Or would that be cowardly?"
She had not a doubt that he meant this melodramatic twaddle. It did not seem twaddle or melodramatic to her—or, for that matter, to him. She clasped him more closely. "What's the matter, dear?" she asked, her head on his breast.
"Oh, I've had a row at the Herald, and have quit. But I'll get another place tomorrow."
"Of course. I wish you'd fix up that play the way Drumley suggested."
"Maybe I shall. We'll see."
"Anything else wrong?"
"Only the same old trouble. I love you too much. Too damn much," he added in a tone not intended for her ears. "Weak fool—that's what I am. Weak fool. I've got you, anyhow. Haven't I?"