She had struck a match to make a light.
"What—what are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm going to see what's the matter with you. You look sick. You need medicine."
"No," he protested. "I'm just tired. A drink of whisky if you've got one——"
She went into Barry Quinlevin's room and brought forth a bottle, a glass and a pitcher of water. With a hand that trembled a little, he poured himself a drink and took it at a draught, and then gave a gasp of relief. She had sat down near him and was regarding him with an expression of intentness and eagerness, though the pucker at her brows indicated a doubt and a fear. The gas light was at his back and she could not clearly see his face, but there was something strange about him that she had missed at his first entrance, a brooding sullenness, remote, self-centered, that even the smile could not temper with sweetness. And even while she watched he poured out another glass of whisky.
"What is it, Harry?" she asked. "Tell me."
"It's nothing," he said. "I'm all in, I've had some worries. I'll be all right.'
"Have you had something to eat?"
"Yes. I'm not hungry."
His voice too ... thin, weary, somber.