Huckaby suggested bed. She shrugged her shoulders. It was not her body that was tired, she explained, but the ridiculous something that people called a soul. That was dead beat. She looked up at him as he stood before her wondering to hear her talk so frankly.
“What was it that played the devil with you? A woman?”
“Drink,” replied Huckaby laconically.
“I hadn’t even that excuse,” said Lena Fontaine. She laughed mirthlessly. “Don’t you wish you were good?”
He sat down by her side.
“Why shouldn’t we try to be?”
“Because the world isn’t a Sunday School, my dear friend.”
Huckaby ventured to touch her hand with the tip of his finger.
“Let us try,” said he.
She smiled—this time only in half derision.