"And the doctor?"
"Oh, he'll wait. He's used to waiting in Nut Street."
Fairfax fingered the money. "And your work at Sheedy's?"
Molly stood by the bed, his shirt in her hand, her brass thimble on one finger, a bib apron over her bosom.
"Don't bother."
"You've lost your place, Molly; given it up to take care of me."
She took a few stitches, the colour high in her face, and with a rare sensitiveness understood that she must not let Antony see her sacrifice, that she must not put her responsibility on Fairfax. She met his eyes candidly.
"If you go on like this, you'll be back again worse nor ye were. Sheedy's afther me ivery day at the dure there, waitin' till I'm free again. He is that. Meanwhile he's payin' me full time. He is that. He'll keep me me place!"
She lied sweetly, serenely, and when the look of relief crept over Fairfax's face, she endured it as humble women in love endure, when their natures are sweet and honey-like and their hearts are pure gold.
She took the five dollars he paid her back. He was too delicate in sentiment to offer her more, and he watched her, his hands idly on the sheets.