“I’ve got to clear out. That’s what I mean. Right away out. Back to England.”
I didn’t speak.
“That’s it,” he went on, but now as though he were talking to himself. “That’s what you’ve got to do, old son.... She says so, and she’s right. Can’t alter our love, you know. Nothing changes that. We’ve got to hold on... Ought to have cleared out before....”
Suddenly he turned. He almost flung himself upon me. He gripped my arms so that I would have cried out if the agony in his eyes hadn’t held me.
“Here,” he muttered, “let me alone for a moment. I must hold on. I’m pretty well beat. I’m just about done.”
For what seemed hours we sat there. I believe it was, in reality, only a few minutes. He sat facing me, his eyes staring at me but not seeing me, his body close against me, and I could see the sweat glistening on his chest through the open pyjamas. He was rigid as though he had been struck into stone.
He suddenly relaxed.
“That’s right,” he said; “thanks, old man. I’m better now. It’s a bit late, I expect, but stay on a while.”
He got into bed. I sat beside him, gripped his hand, and ten minutes later he was asleep.