“No, thank you. I’d rather not. It’s all right, mother. Don’t worry.”
It was hard to say even that little, just then, but he did as well as he could. Then he kissed her on the forehead and opened the door for her. She bent her head low as she passed him, but she did not look up.
Half an hour later, when John was about to put out his light, he heard the little clinking of glasses and silver on a tray outside his door. Then there was a knock.
“I’ve brought you something to eat, Jack,” said his mother’s voice. “Just what I could find—”
John turned as he was crossing the room—a gaunt figure in his loose, striped flannels—and hesitated a moment before he spoke.
“Oh—thank you, very much,” he answered. “Would you kindly set it down? I’ll take it in presently. It’s very good of you, mother—thank you—good night again.”
He heard her set down the tray, and the things rattled and clinked.
“It’s here, when you want it,” said the voice.
He fancied there was a sigh after the words, and two or three seconds passed before the sound of softly departing footsteps followed. He listened, with a weary look in his eyes, then went to the fireplace and leaned against the mantelpiece for a moment. As though making an effort, he turned again and went to the door and opened it and brought in the tray. There were dainty things on it, daintily arranged. There was also a small decanter of whiskey, a pint of claret and a little jug of hot water. John set the tray upon one end of his writing table and looked at it, with an odd, sour smile. He was really so tired that he wanted neither food nor drink, and the sight of both in abundance was almost nauseous to him. He reflected that the servant would take away the things in the morning, and that his mother would never know whether he had taken what she had brought him or not, unless she asked him, which was impossible. He took up the tray again, set it down on the floor, in a corner, and instead of going to bed seated himself at his writing table.