Lavery had gone back to finish his dinner. When he came up Mary was in the sickroom. The nurse had to give some medicine; twice a restless movement of the patient had spilt it. Mary slipped her arm under Laurence's head and held him still while the medicine was given. She smoothed back his tumbled hair and laid her cool hand on his forehead. For a moment he was quieter; the low muttering ceased, his eyelids closed. She was on her knees by the bedside; and holding him so, close to her, suddenly she felt stabbed to the heart, she could not breathe for the pain.... Then Lavery came in. Laurence began again that murmuring and tossed away from her. Presently she got up and went out.
She sank into one of the deep chairs in the study, leaned back and closed her eyes till she could control the nervous trembling that shook her. Lavery, lighting one of his thick black cigars, came and sat down near her. He moved stiffly and a half-stifled groan escaped him. She looked at his face, pale and puffy with bluish shadows under the eyes.
"You're tired out."
"Well, I'm tired—I was up last night a good deal," he admitted.
"You must go home now and rest, there's nothing more to do here. The doctor's sending another nurse and he'll be in again himself.... You've been very good."
"Oh," he said brusquely, "I guess it will be all right."
"Well, it may be a long illness, you know—weeks. Now—I want to ask you—" she frowned and gazed at him haughtily. "Here we all are, you see—the two nurses and me, and there'll be special cooking, and—Well, how will she manage? It's her house, I suppose. I don't see how we can all—"
"Nothing else to be done. She has a servant, I know, and you could hire another one if you want. But she'll want to do something herself, she,—oh, well, hang it, she's devoted to Laurence."
"I suppose so.... You know her, don't you, pretty well?"
"Oh, yes, I've been here a good deal. Laurence has always had his rooms here ever since I've known him—it's quieter, you see, and—well, Mary, I guess you knew about it, didn't you?"