"Well, you'd better get back there to-night—"
"I'm staying in London for a day or two."
"Where?"
"Here. I've got a bedroom upstairs."
"You can do what you damn well please," he said. "It doesn't matter to me. I'm going away from here to-morrow morning." Then, after another pause, he said:
"What sort of a man's your husband?"
"A clergyman," she answered.
"A clergyman ... good Lord!" He laughed grimly. "Still religious, I see."
All this time she was thinking how ill he was. Every breath that he drew seemed to hurt him. His eyes were dull and expressionless. He moved his hands, sometimes, with a groping movement as though he could not see. He drank his tea thirstily, eagerly.
At last he had finished. He bent forward, leaning on his hands, looking her steadily in the face for the first time.