The hands of the clock pointed to ten before he stooped to following Mrs. Porter’s example. George Pennicut had been sent out, so he went into the little kitchen, where he found eggs, which he mixed with milk and swallowed. After this he was aware of a momentary excess of optimism. The future looked a little brighter. But not for long. Presently he was prowling the studio as restlessly as ever.
Men of Kirk’s type are not given to deep thought. Until now he had probably never spent more than a couple of minutes consecutively in self-examination. This vigil forced him upon himself and caused him to pass his character under review, with strange and unsatisfactory results. He had never realised before what a curiously contemptible and useless person he was. It seemed to him that this was all he was fit for—to hang about doing nothing while everybody else was busy and proving his or her own worth.
A door opened and the little doctor came quietly down the stairs. Kirk sprang at him.
“Well?”
“My dear man, everything’s going splendidly. Couldn’t be better.” The doctor’s eyes searched his face. “When did you have anything to eat last?”
“I don’t know. I had some eggs and milk. I don’t know when.”
The doctor took him by the shoulders and hustled him into the kitchen, where he searched and found meat and bread.
“Eat that,” he said. “I’ll have some, too.”
“I couldn’t.”
“And some whisky. Where do you keep it?”