“How are you?” asked Josiah.
“I’m much better, dear. I’ll be up, tomorrow. I’ve told Christine. Do you want to come to bed?” Her pleasure at his interest had made her voluble.
Josiah looked at her a moment. His eyes travelled to the cradle. Then, he spoke.
“That’s what I wanted to speak to you about. I ain’t got much money, these days. But I’ve bought two single beds. They’ll be here tomorrow. They cost me twenty dollars. But they’ll be a good investment, even if I don’t get a cent for this one. Go to sleep now. I’m going to spend the night at the Inn.”
He left the room.
This was the mother of Quincy.
II
Dr. Gresham joined Mr. and Mrs. Burt in the parlor. There they sat cowed by fear. Something was wrong with Sylvia and Josiah junior who lay upstairs in bed. The physician, with a broad glance, took in his audience before he spoke. The couple sat in opposite corners of the room—a square, colorless arrangement in false brocade, knick-knacks and musty varnish. Sarah was on a cane stool which enabled her long back to be as stiff and angular as possible. Her black hair was stringy over her sallow face. She was only thirty-three. But her eyes, deep, grey blue eyes with a wash of timidity and a fret of fever forever in them, showed that once she must have been passionate and responsive. Josiah lay half back in an armchair. Between his vest and his trousers was an hiatus of blue shirt. His thread tie looked comical against the expansive bulk of his body. His eyes were small, sheer, energetic. His mouth, also, was small. But its regressive curl bespoke inertia. A day’s beard stood in purple ridges upon his florid cheeks. He tapped the chair with stout fingers—whose nails he invariably bit. Sarah tapped the carpet with her house-slippers. Her feet had lost their shape.
“It’s as I feared: both of them have scarlet fever.”
Sarah caught her breath and passed a long hand over her forehead, brushing back the hair. Her eyes half closed. Then, she looked at her husband. He jumped up, his face tortured.