He mumbled something. She bent nearer to understand, but he fell silent, continuing to pick and fumble and stare at space.
“Do you feel very ill, Stuart? I want you to tell me.”
“If I could have—a little whiskey—or something—to buck up——”
She rose, got the gift bottle that she had been saving; brought it to him with a tumbler; left him there with it.
As she turned her back and walked nervously toward the front of the house, he peeped after her out of shadowy eyes, not lifting his head. Then he poured out half a glass of neat whiskey, steadily enough, swallowed it, looked around.
In the living-room Eris flung scarf and reticule on the sofa, stood for a moment twisting her fingers in helpless revolt; then, fighting off nervous reaction, she paced the room striving to think what to do, what was right to do in this miserable emergency.
Did she owe this man anything more than she owed to any sick, hungry, ragged man? If so, what? How much? How far did the law run that fettered her? What were the statutes which exacted service? And the ethics of the case—what were they? Anything except the bare morals involved? Anything except the ordinary humanity operating generally in such cases and involving her in obvious obligation? Were they the obligations which once involved those who looked upon Lazarus and “passed by on the other side”? Were they really more vital?
She went slowly back to the kitchen. Hearing her approach, her husband had crossed both arms on the table and dropped his marred face in them.
“Are you really very ill, Stuart?” she asked calmly.
“No. I’ll go——” He tried, apparently, to get to his feet; fell back on the chair, whimpering.