Mark writhed. The plastron of his shirt crackled. He gripped Olive’s arm and drew her from the room. In the hall he panted, “Augustin Daly’s prompter—a Frenchman—I guess he meant Clara Morris.” But in the cooler hall, away from the insufferable bed, he was ashamed. This was bad behaviour, unmanly, ridiculous. He smiled timidly at Olive who suddenly put her hands on his face and kissed him.
“I talked to Gurdy. He’ll be here as soon as he can, dear.”
“Thanks. Got to go back.” Mark sighed, “You go to bed, though.”
“No.”
Mark didn’t want her to go to bed. He smiled and went back to his watch. Odious time passed. The smell of cigarettes crept from the walls and the furniture. Carlson had smoked many thousands here. One of the nurses clicked a string of beads. The tiny cross was silver and lustrous as it swung. The beads seemed amethyst. What good did the woman think she was doing? But she had liked Carlson. She was praying for his soul and Carlson thought he had a soul. Let her pray. The amethyst flicker soothed Mark, took his eyes from the bed. The voice surprised him with his name.
“Mark.”
“Yessir.”
“It’s a poor house. Rain....”
Mark’s throat was full of dry fire. He gripped the rail, waiting. But the voice did not come again. After four the doctor nodded. One nurse yawned. The Irishwoman fell gently on her knees under the large, signed photograph of Ada Rehan in the frilled, insolent dress of Lady Teazle. Olive led Mark quickly from the room into the library. He pressed his hands on his eyes. He wouldn’t cry over this. Carlson had too often called him a crybaby, a big calf.
“Dear Mark.”