“You are sure that there are no friends to whom I can send?” he asked.
“There is no one!”
She closed her eyes and Tavernake sat quite still on the end of her couch, his elbow upon his knee, his head resting upon his hand. Presently, the rush of customers having ceased, the chemist came in.
“I think, if I were you, I should take her home now,” he remarked. “She'll probably drop off to sleep very soon and wake up much stronger. I have made up a prescription here in case of exhaustion.”
Tavernake stared at the man. Take her home! His sense of humor was faint enough but he found himself trying to imagine the faces of Mrs. Lawrence or Mrs. Fitzgerald if he should return with her to the boardinghouse at such an hour.
“I suppose you know where she lives?” the chemist inquired curiously.
“Of course,” Tavernake assented. “You are quite right. I dare say she is strong enough now to walk as far as the pavement.”
He paid the bill for the medicines, and they lifted her from the couch. Between them she walked slowly into the outer shop. Then she began to drag on their arms and she looked up at the chemist a little piteously.
“May I sit down for a moment?” she begged. “I feel faint.”
They placed her in one of the cane chairs facing the door. The chemist mixed her some sal volatile.