Butch remained by the door. Something told him that things weren’t right. “It’s late,” he said, listening with his head on one side.
Myra motioned Gurney to stay where he was. Gurney was sitting propped up on his elbow, one leg on the floor. Sweat ran down his face, making him look ghastly in the bright naked light.
Butch moved forward a little, shutting the door.
“Sankey all right?” Myra asked.
“Yeah,” Butch said; he passed his hand over the top of his bald head. His eyes looked straight at Gurney. The two yellow clots bore into Gurney’s brain. “Seems quiet here,” Butch went on.
Myra stooped and picked up her dress. Butch heard the rustle of the material as she gathered it into a ring to slip over her head. “What you doin’?” he said sharply.
Myra shook a little, the dress slipping out of her hands. “I told you I’m going to bed.” She began to walk heavily about the room, taking up the ironing-board and putting it against the wall. “Sankey going to win?” she asked, for something to say.
“You’re interested in that guy, ain’t you?”
Gurney’s muscles began to ache, sitting like that. He was too scared to move. He just stayed there, his eyes fixed on Butch.
“Why not?” Myra’s knees were beginning to shake. The old geezer guessed there was something wrong, she thought. She walked carelessly over to the couch again and picked up her dress. Neither Gurney nor she looked at each other.