He pulled himself together; turned toward her: “I don’t want money.... I’m too sick——”
“Wait! You can’t go into the street that way!...”
He seemed so shaky and confused that she took hold of his ragged arm. Very slowly, and supported by her, he entered the doorway. They climbed the stairs together, wearily, in silence.
Hattie usually went home at night and arrived, by key, early in the morning. Eris unlocked her door, lighted the corridor, went on to the living-room and lighted that. Then she returned to her husband and led the way to the kitchen and pantry and lighted them both.
“There is a chair,” she said. “I’ll make you some hot coffee.”
She flung a cloth over the kitchen table, laid a cover, brought what there was in the ice-box,—cold lamb, sardines, butter, fruit. She went again to the pantry and sliced bread for him. Then she started the gas range in the kitchen.
“I’m putting you to a great deal of trouble,” he mumbled.
She paid him no attention but went on with her preparations. When finally she returned with the steaming coffee she found he had eaten nothing.
However, he drank some of the coffee. After that he slumped on his chair, dazed, inert, his lack-lustre gaze on the floor. But his bony, bloodless fingers—those long, clever, nimble fingers she remembered—picked aimlessly at everything—at his face, at his clothing, at the sliced bread.
“Have you been ill long?” she forced herself to ask.