"No, of course not, my dearie man; but you'll soon be all right now—home again with me. Cheer up, cheer up!"
"I'm not well," he said again.
She caught the parcel out of his hand, and taking the "angels' tear" from the tumbler, fixed it in his coat.
"Here's a spring flower for you, Max; out of your own little hothouse. You're home again; home again, my dearie. Auntie's upstairs, and the girls'll be coming soon. And we'll have dinner."
"I'm not well, Dollee," he said.
Terrified by that reiteration, she drew him down on the little horsehair sofa, and sat on his knee. "You're home, Max, kiss me. There's my man!" and she rocked him to and fro against her, yearning yet fearing to look into his face and see that "something" wander there—light up, go out, light up. "Look, dearie," she said, "I've got some beer for you. You'd like a glass of beer?"
He made a motion of his lips, a sound that was like the ghost of a smack. It terrified her, so little life was there in it.
He clutched her close, and repeated feebly:
"Yes, all right in a day or two. They let me come—I'm not well, Dollee." He touched his head.
Straining him to her, rocking him, she murmured over and over again, like a cat purring to its kitten: