“The Salvation Army—it is too much for one woman.”
“What was your objection to a wedding tour?” asked the young man curiously.
“There it is again,” said his companion in an aggrieved voice, “everybody is badgering me about it. I’ve no objection to tours of any kind, but I can’t go proclaiming through the city that my wife isn’t fit to travel. People are utterly senseless about traveling, which is one of the most fatiguing things on earth. They come to me saying, ‘Doctor, I’m run down, no appetite, can’t sleep—where shall I go?’ ‘Go to bed, you idiots,’ I say, ‘and sleep and eat and take your journey when you recover.’”
Mr. Dana laughed at him and held out his cigar case. “Have one, you will find it composing.”
“No, thank you,” and Camperdown threw a keen glance at his wife. He saw that Mr. Dana’s chatter had partly roused her from the state of deadly languor that always preceded her severe paroxysms of pain, and in intense relief he ejaculated, “Glad we met you, Dana. Good-night,” and offering Stargarde his arm, he proceeded along the street in a leisurely fashion.
Arrived on Rockland Street, they paused outside the dark windows of her deserted room, then walking softly inside the courtyard, skirted the walls of the long building. The lights were nearly all out and the people were asleep. Here and there a feeble gleam told of a sick-bed, and Stargarde, who knew the condition of all, murmured a prayer as she passed such places. Finally her silent adieux were said and there was no longer an excuse for her to linger.
“Remember Lot’s wife,” said Camperdown dryly when she paused under the archway to look back.
She turned to him with a troubled face. “Never mind, Philanthropia, I am only joking,” he said, suppressing a laugh. “It is a satisfaction to you to see that they are all resting quietly without you, is it not?”
“Yes; my work is done here,” she murmured.
“But you can still come back, sweetheart. Here is one gnarled sinner that will be greatly edified by pilgrimages to the Pavilion.”