“Who’s Deccabroni?” asked Christine.
“Didn’t she have a picture of him that was burned?” said Paul. “I don’t remember who he is; but Heaven help him!”
Paul rose.
“I’ve got to get at my work now, Christy, darling,” he said. “You won’t worry any more now, will you? You see that I can handle things fairly well.”
Modest words, and a modest enough expression upon his face, but in his heart the fellow was shamelessly exultant. Certainly he could handle things, all things, and not fairly well, but wonderfully well. Wives, cooks, trained nurses, and Miss Bankses could all be borne upon his capable shoulders.
So full was the house of dependent females that he had no place to work except a cold and dismal little sewing room; but what did he care? His little world was revolving, and he was its axis. Everything depended upon him and him alone. He put on an overcoat, lighted a cigarette, and set to work on a pile of documents with zest and good humor. He didn’t care any longer whether he had eight hours’ sleep or a temperature of the correct humidity, or how much he smoked. Nor was he much in[Pg 70]terested in post-war Beluchistan. He had a man’s work to do!
He didn’t hear Christine as she came down the hall and stood in the doorway. He was absorbed in his work, his black hair wildly ruffled, his overcoat collar turned up, and his feet wrapped in a quilt.
“Paul,” said she, “I’ve brought you some hot soup.”
He disentangled his feet as quickly as he could, and sprang up.
“You shouldn’t have done that!” he cried, with a frown. “You’re supposed to be resting, Christy.”