“Where did you leave him?”
“In the bath,” and Winifred gave a little bitter laugh. “The only thing he’s brought back is lavender-water.”
“Steady!” said Soames, “you’re thoroughly upset. I’ll go back with you.”
“What’s the use?”
“We ought to make terms with him.”
“Terms! It’ll always be the same. When he recovers—cards and betting, drink and...!” She was silent, remembering the look on her husband’s face. The burnt child—the burnt child. Perhaps...!
“Recovers?” replied Soames: “Is he ill?”
“No; burnt out; that’s all.”
Soames took his waistcoat from a chair and put it on, he took his coat and got into it, he scented his handkerchief with eau-de-Cologne, threaded his watch-chain, and said: “We haven’t any luck.”
And in the midst of her own trouble Winifred was sorry for him, as if in that little saying he had revealed deep trouble of his own.