She seemed to fall asleep as soon as she had spoken; her head dropped heavily on the boards.
Not long after midnight the potman made his appearance. As always, on returning from his sixteen-hour day of work, he was all but insensible with fatigue. Entering the room, he turned his white face with an expression of stupid wonderment to the corner in which Bob lay. The latter raised himself to a sitting posture.
‘That you, Bob Hewett?’
‘I want to stop here over the night,’ replied the other, speaking with difficulty. ‘I can’t go home. There’s something up.’
‘With Pennyloaf?’
‘No. I’ve got to hide away. And I’m feeling bad—awful bad. Have you got anything to drink?’
Stephen, having listened with a face of a somnambulist, went to the mantel-piece and looked into the teapot. It was empty.
‘You can go to the tap in the yard,’ he said.
‘I couldn’t get so far. Oh, I feel bad!’
‘I’ll fetch you some water.’