“Somewhere,” she said vaguely; “somewhere in the street. I lost that, too.”
They were at the top of the stairs. She suddenly turned toward him and pressed her face into his shoulder, trembling like a terrified animal.
“I’m frightened,” she whispered. “Don’t tell them downstairs. I’ll tell you to-morrow. Don’t ask me anything to-night.”
He took her into her room and placed her in an armchair by the fireplace. He lit the gas and drew the curtains, and then knelt by the hearth to kindle the fire, saying nothing and apparently taking little notice of her. She sat dully watching him, her hands in her lap, the water running off her skirts along the carpet.
When he had lit the fire he said:
“Now, I’ll go, and you take off your things. I’ll bring you up your supper in half an hour. Be quick, you’re soaking. I’ll tell them downstairs you’re too tired to come down.”
He went out, softly closing the door. She sat on in her wet clothes, feeling the growing warmth of the flames on her face and hands. She seemed to fall into a lethargy of exhaustion and sat thus motionless, the water running unheeded on the carpet, frissons of cold occasionally shaking her, till a knock at the door roused her. Then she suddenly remembered Barron and his command to take off her wet clothes. She had them on still and he would be angry.
“Put it down on the chair outside,” she called through the door; “I’m not ready.”
“Won’t you open the door and take this whisky and drink it at once?” came his answer.
She opened the door a crack and, putting her hand through the aperture, took the glass with the whisky.