Mrs. Cornell met his eyes; her own were narrowed and sharp.
“What makes you think anything is?”
“His whole make-up—something’s wearing on him.”
She blew out a long shoot of smoke and, watching it, murmured:
“Yes, it’s out on him like a rash. He oughtn’t to have come, but the first man they had, Sylvanus Grey, took sick and Mr. Walberg engaged Stokes in a hurry and sent him up. It’s spoiled everything for the rest of us. He’s crazy about Sybil if you want to know what’s the matter with him.”
“Oh!” It came with an understanding inflection, the haggard glances rising on Shine’s memory.
“Can’t hide it, doesn’t want to hide it. There’s no shame in him, tracking after the girl. And it’s not as if he got any encouragement. She can’t bear him; that’s why she has Anne Tracy out there, afraid if she sits alone five minutes he’ll come loping up. You’d think if he didn’t have any pride he’d have some feeling for his wife. She’s half crazy with jealousy, burning up with it. These purple passions are all right in books, Mr. Shine, but believe me they’re not comfortable to live with.”
“I felt it.”
“I guess you would, it’s in the air. All of us cooped up in this place where you can’t get off. I thought it was going to be such a nice restful change. But lord! It’s about as restful as camping on the side of Vesuvius. Sybil and Joe Tracy ready to fight at the drop of the hat and Flora going round in circles and Stokes like one of those fireworks that starts sputtering and you don’t know whether they’re going to explode or die on you. I tell you I’ll be glad when we get out of here to-morrow morning.”
There was a footfall in the room behind them and Mrs. Cornell turned to see who was coming.