XXVI
One evening at the end of two long hours, when he had heroically suppressed his longing for a game of poker, he said hesitatingly, "I thought you were so fond of reading. I don't see any books about. All the women are reading a novel called 'Quits.' I'll send it up to you in the morning if you haven't read it."
For the first time since Masters' departure the blood rose in
Madeleine's face, but she answered calmly:
"Thanks. I have little time for reading, as I have developed quite a passion for embroidery and I practice a good deal. This is a handkerchief-case for Mrs. McLane. Of course I must read 'Quits,' however, and also 'The Initials.' One mustn't be behind the times. If you'll step into Beach's tomorrow and order them I'll be grateful."
"Of course I will. Should—should—you like me to read to you? I'm a pretty bad reader, I guess, but I'll do my best."
"Oh—is there an earthquake?"
"No! But your nerves are in a bad state. I'll get you a glass of port wine."
He went heavily over to the cupboard, but his hand was shaking as he poured out the wine. He drank a glass himself before returning to her.
"Thanks. You take very good care of me." And she gave him the gracious smile of a grateful patient.
"I don't think you'd better go out any more at night for a while. You are far from well, you know, and you're not picking up."