"But it won't take me a minute—the kettle's on the fire."
The combined longing for a stimulant and for oblivion was too intense for Janey to resist.
"You're sure you won't be long?"
"Yes—I promise—just down and up again."
"Then thank you, Len."
He went down to the kitchen, and mixed a pretty stiff grog—for himself. Janey had been too over-wrought to notice that her brother was trembling and flushed, and that there was a strange, drawn look about his face. He had turned back half-way to Cherrygarden because he felt "queer," and to this no doubt she owed her life. In the horror and confusion of the last half-hour he had forgotten his own illness, but now it was growing upon him, and he must fight it for her sake. He drank a tumblerful of brandy and water, then mixed some for Janey, and went upstairs.
He helped her take off her charred skirt and bodice, and wrapped her in a dressing-gown. He bathed her smoky face and hands, then he pulled a rug over her, and gave her the brandy. It was a strong dose for a woman, and in spite of all she had said she was soon asleep.
He sat down beside her and closed his eyes. The soft air fanned him, and the scents of the little garden steamed up and scattered themselves in the room.
Janey lay with her head sunk deep in the pillow, her face half-buried in it, and her breathing came heavily, almost in sobs. Her knees were drawn up, and her arms crossed on her breast, the hands twisted together—there was something pathetic and childish in the huddled attitude.