It seemed to
her just as unreal a thing as last night's dream.
But at four o'clock in the morning as she sat on the verandah, half
nodding with red-rimmed, heavy eyes, she saw him come stumbling along,
holding on to the pony's neck.
She went out to meet him, knowing just exactly what she was going to
meet. And she felt frozen with horror. The average man coming home drunk
is not a tragedy. He is merely amiably ridiculous. To Louis, after all
his fights and all his hopes, tragedy had certainly come, but he was too
drunk to know it yet. He began to bluff and lie just as usual.
"Ought be 'shamed, sending a chap thirty--thirty--thirty miles f'r lot
fem'--fem'--fripp--fripp--fripperies! Sick an' tired, stuck in with a
wom' day an' night f'r months. 'Nough make any man k-k-kick."
She did not speak, and he went on in the same old way, French words
peppering the halting English; she could have shut her eyes and fancied
she was back in the city again, or on the ship.
He muttered and shouted alternately all the way to the cottage; there
was a meal waiting but he could not eat; sitting on the edge of the
verandah, he ordered her to light him a cigarette. She knew there were
none in the house and felt in his coat pocket, guessing he had bought
some. She was not really unhappy. She was too sick, too frozen to feel
yet at all.
Pages:
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443