"He's apparently committing himself to three households," Bertrand cried. "The first because his wife refuses to live with him, the second because he wants to make his friends believe that they are living together, the third because he requires a home for his wife's child, which in time will come to be regarded as his child...."
"I've got no influence over him," I said in protest against his tone of injury.
Bertrand shook his head gloomily.
"When once he's made up his mind—it doesn't matter how fantastic a thing may be...."
The door opened, and O'Rane came in to repeat his request of the morning for water and any food that was available. He had found time to shave and change his clothes, but I have never seen a man more utterly exhausted.
"Is there any news?" Bertrand asked.
"She's doing—very fairly, I think," he answered with a drawl that was almost a stammer. "The effect—drug, you know—wearing off. She woke up—for a few moments. Now getting some natural sleep."
I put a stiff dash of brandy into the water and watched O'Rane's grey cheeks colouring.
"Did she seem comfortable?" I enquired.
"Comfortable?" he repeated with a laugh. "The physical relief, you know.... Whatever happens now, she's free from pain, she's bound to feel better and better.... When I was wounded, there were times when I thought I couldn't bear it; the nurses told me that I said quite clearly, 'It's no use hurting me any more; I can't stand it.' Dear souls! as if they could help it! And one did stand it.... But, when the pain began to abate, when you didn't have to keep yourself braced up against it, I went as limp as a rag. It was like the end of a long fever.... After that, whether I was asleep or awake, I always knew that the real hell was over. There might be little twinges in unexpected places, but the pain was over, over. And the feeling of weakness was so delicious! Like an endless repetition of the glorious moment when you're just dropping off to sleep.... That's how Sonia is now."