“Gilbert!” she said, in a pleasant, matter-of-fact voice. “Get on dry clothes. Your dinner’s ready for you.”
She spoke to him as she thought his mother might have spoken; she thought she felt a little as his mother might have felt to see the boy like this.
“No!” he said, in an unsteady voice. “Let me alone! What are you doing here?”
“I’m so glad I am here!” she thought. “So glad! Poor little Margie! If she brings her Paul here now—” And aloud: “Gilbert!” she said, with quiet authority. “Please do as I ask you—at once. Change your clothes.”
“I won’t!” he said. “No, I won’t! You don’t know. You can’t understand. Only Bill. Bill knew. Bill was right. I wish I was dead!”
The same childish passion and unreason that Margie had shown. He sank into a chair by the table and buried his face in his hands.
“I wish I was dead!” he said again.
And Rose, always listening for Nin[Pg 395]a’s step, had also to listen to this boy’s sorry little tale. He had gone to visit his father’s cousin, Lucille Winter.
“Bill told me they were no good,” he said, “but I wouldn’t believe him. And—you don’t know what it was like. I lost over a hundred dollars at bridge. And I drank. I didn’t mean to, but every one else did, and I’ve come home to my sister like this. If I’d had a penny left, I’d never have come home again—never! It’s—you don’t know—it’s all so beastly, and I thought I’d like that sort of life, but—I couldn’t get out fast enough. I’ve found out now that old Bill was right—but it’s too late.”
“It is not!” Rose declared, firmly.