William, locking the front door, made no answer. Martha hesitated, and then came down-stairs.
"I must say, William, flatly and frankly, that you—" she paused. "You look tired out, Willy?"
William, fumbling with the guard-chain, was silent.
"Come into the dining-room and I'll get you something to eat," said his wife.
"I don't want anything to eat."
Martha glanced at him keenly. His face was white and haggard, and though he looked at her, he did not seem to see her; when she said again something about food, he made no answer. "Why, William!" she said in a frightened voice. Then with quick common sense, she put her alarm behind her. "Come up-stairs, and go to bed. A good night's sleep will make a new man of you." And in a sort of cheerful silence, she pushed him along in front of her. She asked no more questions, but just as he got into bed she brought him a steaming tumbler of whiskey and water. "I guess you have taken a little cold, my dear," she said.
William looked at her dumbly; then realizing that there was no escape, drank his whiskey, while Martha, her candle in one capable hand, waited to make sure that he drained the last drop. When he gave the glass back to her, she touched his shoulder gently and bade him go to sleep. As she turned away, he caught that capable hand and held it in both of his for a moment.
"Martha," he said, "I beg your pardon."
"Oh, well," said Martha, "of course, a doctor often has to be out late.
If you only don't come down with a cold on your lungs, it's all right."
"I sha'n't come down with a cold on my lungs," said William King.