“I’m scared,” said Mark, gulping, “Gurd, I’m scared of Cora. Suppose she likes him? Suppose she won’t let go of him? She’s bad tempered, sonny. You don’t know her.—It’s the talk—the talk. People ain’t as broad minded as you and Olive think. The women, especially.—And she’s a young girl.... It ain’t like she was one of these women that’ve been divorced three or four times.... If Cora makes a fuss—”
Gurdy pulled him up out of the chair and gently shook him. “You must come to bed.”
“All right.—Making a fool of myself.... Only, you’re in love with her. It’s hard on you.”
“I’m not in love with her, Mark!”
Mark thought this a splendid sort of lie but he shivered. “Somethin’ else might happen. I feel.... Come and get me in bed, son.”
He became limply ashamed of himself. Gurdy helped him to strip and he found the boy buttoning his jacket for him as he sat on the edge of his bed. He watched the long, wiry fingers at work on the buttons and the holes of the blue silk. The cold linen of the pillow caressed his neck. He smiled, wanting Gurdy to stay there until he fell asleep. The doorbell rang with a steady and ripping insistence.
“Damn,” said Gurdy and went into the hall where the cold air mounting from the opened door chilled his bare feet. The butler ascended like a shadow on the white wainscot.
“A Mr. Fuller, sir.”
“He can’t see Mr. Walling. He’s asleep.”
“He says he must see Mr. Walling, Mr. Gurdy.” The butler held out his salver. Gurdy read the card, Henry Fuller. Fuller and Marcovicz, Attorneys at Law. Under the engraving was pencilled, “For Miss Boyle.”