He was there every night. Where he slept or when, or if at all, his mother and Christian did not know; they only knew that he never spent a night at home. They barely saw him from day to day. When he came home in the morning and evening, it was to sit at the table, rarely speaking, scarcely tasting food, only drinking greedily the cup of strong coffee Christian always had in readiness for him. The girl was very good to him in these days. She watched him in terror of his unnatural mood. He hardly seemed to see them when they were in the room with him; his eyes were hollow and burning bright; he grew thin and narrow-chested and stooped; his hands were unsteady when he lifted anything.
When she was alone, Christian said to herself again and again:
"He will die. There is no help for it. He will die—or worse."
One morning she came down to find him lying on the sofa with closed eyes and such a deathly face that she almost cried out aloud. But she restrained herself and went into the kitchen as if to perform her usual tasks. Not long afterward she returned carrying a little tray with a cup of hot coffee upon it.
"Will you drink this for me?" she said to him.
He opened his eyes a little impatiently, but he sat up and drank it.
"It's very good," he said, as he fell back again into his old position, "but you mustn't put yourself to trouble for me."
Afterward the coffee was always ready for him when he came in, and he got into the habit of drinking it mechanically.
The books he had been accustomed to pore over at every leisure moment lay unopened. He neither touched nor looked at them.
The two women tried to live their lives as if nothing were happening. They studiously avoided questioning or appearing to observe him.