‘Just a friend,’ muttered Stephen.
6
They went back that evening and stayed the night. Mary helped with the nursing; Stephen looked after Jamie.
‘Is she a little—I mean the friend—is she mental at all, do you know?’ The nurse whispered, ‘I can’t get her to speak—she’s anxious, of course; still, all the same, it doesn’t seem natural.’
Stephen said: ‘No—it doesn’t seem natural to you.’ And she suddenly flushed to the roots of her hair. Dear God, the outrage of this for Jamie!
But Jamie seemed quite unconscious of outrage. From time to time she stood in the doorway peering over at Barbara’s wasted face, listening to Barbara’s painful breathing, and then she would turn her bewildered eyes on the nurse, on Mary, but above all on Stephen.
‘Jamie—come back and sit down by the stove; Mary’s there, it’s all right.’
Came a queer, halting voice that spoke with an effort: ‘But . . . Stephen . . . we quarrelled.’
‘Come and sit by the stove—Mary’s with her, my dear.’
‘Hush, please,’ said the nurse, ‘you’re disturbing my patient.’