“Times have changed, Snow,” Bowman interrupted. “You ought to read the papers. This is ladies' day. The old harem stuff don't go no longer. They are emancipated.”
“Lemuel,” Doret insisted, a narrowed hard gaze on the other man; “Lemuel Doret.”
“He thinks nobody'll remember,” his wife explained. “Lem's redeemed.”
“Your name's what you say,” Bowman agreed, “but remember this—you can't throw any scare into me. I'm no Fauntleroy, neither. Behave.”
The anger seethed again beneath Lemuel's restraint. It began to be particular, personal, focused on Bowman; and joined to it was a petty dislike for the details of the man's appearance, the jaunty bearing and conspicuous necktie, the gloss of youth over the unmistakable signs of degeneration, the fatty pouches of his eyes and loose throat.
“I wouldn't bother with scaring you,” he told him. “Why should I? You've got no kick. I took you in, didn't I? And all I said was my name. Snow Doret's dead; he died in prison; and this Lemuel's all different——”
“I've heard about that too,” Bowman returned; “but somehow I don't take stock in these miracles.”
“If you ever see me looking like I might be Snow, go quiet,” Lemuel advised. “That's all.”
With clenched hands he abruptly departed. The cords of his neck were swollen and rigid; there was a haze before his eyes. He went up to the refuge of his daughter's room. She was lying still, breathing thickly, with a finger print of scarlet on each cheek.
She was so thin, so wasted, the bed and room so stripped of every comfort, that he dropped forward on his knees, his arms outflung across her body in an inarticulate prayer for faith, for strength and patience.