He muttered something;—“In sickness and in health—till—till death do us—part——”
A dry sob checked his mumbling. He shook his head, slightly. His heavy eyes closed.
She stood staring at him and holding the door partly open. Twice she clutched the knob in nervous fingers as though to slam the door in his face and bolt out this pallid spectre of the past. She could not stir.
“What is the matter with you?” she finally forced herself to ask.
He opened his sick eyes: “Hunger—I guess——”
“You may have money if you need it. Is that what you want?”
He seemed to summon strength to stand upright and pass his bloodless fingers over his face.
“It’s all right,” he muttered thickly; “I didn’t mean to bother you——”
He turned as though to go, steadying himself with one shaky hand on the stoop railing. At the door-step he stumbled, swayed, but recovered.
“Stuart!” she burst out, “come back!”