“Poor Gerald!” she whispered. “Isn’t it a shame!”
“I’m afraid,” I said, “there’s nothing to be done....”
“Oh, I know!” Oh, she seemed to know that from her heart. And I wondered why they had not seen each other for ten years. I couldn’t imagine her disliking Gerald—childish, furious Gerald! Probably, I thought, he was to blame, and I wondered if there was anything in Gerald’s life for which he was not to blame. Poor Gerald.
“You see,” the slightly husky voice was saying, “I just came to-night on an Impulse. I am scarcely ever in England....” The voice expired. We waited, and she acknowledged my patience with a jewel of a smile. “And I suddenly thought I would like to see Gerald to-night. Please,” she suddenly begged, so seriously, “won’t you let me? I’d like just to see him ... but if you think ...?”
“Oh,” I said, “come on.”
She laughed, a little nervously, abruptly. Gerald’s door was at the head of the next flight of stairs, and it was, as usual, wide open. She moved one step forward into the room, she stopped, her eyes on the ceiling, as fixed as lamps. Yes, those were very sensible eyes. She didn’t look at Gerald.
“What is it?” she asked dimly.
“Whisky,” I said. It was so obvious.
“But more than that! There’s certainly whisky, but....”
“Wet shoes....”