"Oh, no, he doesn't show it any more unless he can hardly stand up, and he talks all right until he gets excited. He talks much better than he does when he's sober. But he's been sitting here all day drinking—except for the time it took him to walk to the corner for a newspaper."
"Oh, how terrible!" Muriel was sincerely moved. Her eyes filled with tears. "Has this happened much?"
"Drinking, you mean?"
"No, this—leaving you?"
"Oh, yes. Frequently. He'll come in about midnight—and weep and ask me to forgive him."
"And do you?"
"I don't know. We just go on."
The two women sat there in the lamplight and looked at each other, each in a different way helpless before this thing. Gloria was still pretty, as pretty as she would ever be again—her cheeks were flushed and she was wearing a new dress that she had bought—imprudently—for fifty dollars. She had hoped she could persuade Anthony to take her out to-night, to a restaurant or even to one of the great, gorgeous moving picture palaces where there would be a few people to look at her, at whom she could bear to look in turn. She wanted this because she knew her cheeks were flushed and because her dress was new and becomingly fragile. Only very occasionally, now, did they receive any invitations. But she did not tell these things to Muriel.
"Gloria, dear, I wish we could have dinner together, but I promised a man and it's seven-thirty already. I've got to tear."
"Oh, I couldn't, anyway. In the first place I've been ill all day. I couldn't eat a thing."