"Jimmy and old Grif, between them, managed to catch me when I was under full headway," he explained. "They stopped me and took me up to the Michamac Bridge. I'm on my feet again now. Just the same, I went under, and if it hadn't been for them, I'd be beastly, roaring drunk this minute."
"No, Tom! It's impossible—impossible! I can't believe it!"
"Think I'd lie about a little thing like that?" he asked with the terrible levity of utter despair.
"But it's—it's so awful!"
"I've known funnier jokes. God! D'you think I've done much laughing over being smashed for good? It's rid you of a drunken degenerate. It's you who ought to laugh. How about me? I've lost you! God!"
He bent over, with his chin on his breast and his big fists clenched down at his sides.
She stared at him, dazed, almost stunned by the shock. Only after what seemed an age of waiting could she find words for the stress of bitter disappointment and mortified love that drove the blood to her heart and left her white and dizzy.
"Then—you have—failed. You are—weak!" she at last managed to say.
Simple as were the words, the tone in which they were spoken was enough for Blake.
"Yes," he answered, and he swung about toward the door.