She turned. The perspiration was streaming from forehead and temples, so that her face and throat glistened, as her arms were glistening with the water that was streaming from elbows to finger-ends. Her face was more scarlet than his own. Out of that scarlet looked her eyes, which were shadowed by wide, dark circles.
“Why—why, Jeff!”
He shook his head, slowly and sadly. “And so you married to come to this,” he said in a low voice.
There was a bench beside the sink. She sank to it, as if too weary to keep her feet. As she sat there, leaning on a hand, he saw her, not as she was before him, tired and blowzy and wet with sweat, but as he had seen her last. He took a step toward her. “How does it come that you and Patton’re keepin’ a’ eatin’-house?” he asked.
“We—we got short of money,” she answered falteringly. “Harvey wouldn’t work in Los Angeles where he’s acquainted. He’s so proud. So we came back here. And—and this was all we could see to do.”
“We,” repeated Blandy.
“Well,” she answered. “Well——”
“How about that two hunderd he used to git every month from the East?” He watched her keenly.
“Never comes any more,” she declared.
“That’s too bad. Makin’ any money with the rest’rant?”