The young man lay back. He moistened his lips a little with his tongue. “You were talking about her?” The words were a whisper.
Uncle William looked at him over his glasses. “Didn’t you hear me say so?”
There was a long silence. “I thought you meant—Sergia.”
“Sergia!—What!” Uncle William looked down at the letter. A light dawned slowly in his eye. He fixed it on the young man. A chuckle sounded somewhere and grew in little rolls, tumbling up from the depths. “You thought I meant—her!” Uncle William’s sides shook gently. “Lord, no! Sergia didn’t run away. She’ll stan’ by till the last man’s hung. She’s that kind.”
“I know.” The tone was jealous. “I ought to know.”
“Yes, you ought to know.” Uncle William left the moral to take care of itself. He did up the work, singing hopefully as he rolled about the room, giving things what he called “a lick and a promise.”
“You were late last night,” said the artist, watching him.
“Yes, considabul late,” said Uncle William. He had come upon another pile of cigar-ashes behind a picture on the shelf, and was brushing it up, whistling softly. “You must ’a’ smoked a good deal,” he said, rapping out the ashes. “I’ve been sweepin’ ’em up ever since I come.”
“I did. It helped me forget.”
“It didn’t help you get well, I reckon,” said Uncle William. “What you need,” he added, “is fresh air and wind—and rocks.”