"Ugh--he is horrible," she whispered, and bit her lip and frowned.
Then his frightened eyes sought hers and she whispered softly.
"Poor boy. Don't be so frightened. Marcella is here."
"Marsh--Marcella," he said, making a desperate effort to sit up and look
round. He looked at her, bewildered, at the room, and then his eyes
focussed on the lion over the mantelpiece.
"Bri'sh line, ole girl! Shtrength! I'm a line--fi' f'r you when we're
married."
"We are married, dear," she said. "Can't you remember it?"
He stared at her again and dragged himself on to his elbow, looking into
her face, his brain clearing rapidly. After a moment's desperate
grasping for light he burst into tears.
"Married! And drunk! Oh, my God, why did you give me that money, little
girl?"
She was crying, too, now, holding his damp, sticky hand.
"I thought--if I trusted you--to-day--"
"You mustn't trust me. Oh, damn it all, I'm a chunk of jelly!"
"I thought--Oh Louis, if someone loved me and trusted me to make myself
a musician, I'd do it somehow--and I've about as much music in me as a
snail!" she cried passionately. "You know I trusted you! It seems to me
that if you can't remember for ten minutes, and try to be kind the very
hour we're married, the whole thing is hopeless--"
He was getting rapidly sobered by his sense of shame, and looked at her
with swimming eyes.
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