“Do you mind if I sleep on the couch, Tressa?”
“No.”
“Will you call me when you are ready?”
“Yes.”
She went into her bedroom and closed the door.
When he was ready he slipped a pistol into the pocket of his dressing-gown, belted it over his pyjamas, and walked into the sitting-room. His wife called him presently, and he went in. Her night-lamp was burning and she extended her hand to extinguish it.
“Could you sleep if it burns?” he asked bluntly.
“Yes.”
“Then let it burn. This business has got on my nerves,” he muttered.
They looked at each other in an expressionless way. Both really understood how useless was this symbol of protection—this man the girl called husband;—how utterly useless his physical strength, and the pistol sagging in the pocket of his dressing-gown. Both understood that the only real protection to be looked for must come from her—from the gifted and guardian mind of this young girl who lay there looking at him from the pillows.