They went on toward the house, Petersen talking cheerfully, neither exacting nor expecting replies from his companion. They entered the hall, and he turned, for the first time, to look at him.
Like a madman, like a ghost, so deadly pale and haggard and ruined.... He couldn’t bear to look at him. He turned away, but found the image still in his eyes, the tall, lean fellow with his fine-featured face, his great grey eyes, so sunken and luminous, his straggling beard, his ruffled hair, all his shabbiness and wretchedness.
He wanted to propose a bath and a shave before going in to Minnie; the poor devil wasn’t a fit object for her gaze. But he divined the morbid sensitiveness of the famished creature, and was afraid of hurting him. As he hesitated, little Sandra came in from the kitchen.
He caught her violently in his arms.
“Sandra!” he cried. “Don’t you know me?”
She looked up into his face.
“No,” she whimpered, frightened. “Put me down!”
III
His interview with Minnie was very brief, for the nurse sent him out without ceremony, and followed him downstairs.
“Mr. Petersen,” she said, “I’m going to telephone for the doctor.”