He poured some wine into a glass and held it to her blue, cold lips.
"Come, Joyce! We'll straighten things out. Trust me."
She gulped the warming wine, and shivered in the blanket's muffling comfort.
"And now," Gaston was flinging logs on the blazing embers, "you're coming around. Whatever it is, Joyce, it isn't worth all this agony of yours."
"I'm—I'm afraid they'll come and kill us." Joyce's eyes widened and the old fear seized her again. The momentary comfort and thought of safety lost their hold.
"In God's name, Joyce, hush! You're safe and I'm not afraid. Come, don't you see if you want me to help you, you must pull yourself together?"
"Yes; yes; and we—I must hurry."
Now that he had time to think, Gaston knew pretty well what had occurred. The vulgar details did not matter. The one important and hideous fact was, that for some reason, Jude, with the crazy brutality that had long been gathering, had flung his young wife from his protection on to Gaston's.
Well, he would accept the responsibility. He was quite calm, and his blood was up. A pleasurable excitement possessed him, and he laughed to calm the fear he saw in Joyce's eyes.
The clock struck nine. All that was respectable and innocent in St. Angé was in bed at that hour.