Then he would
grin foolishly, and cry weakly, and rage and be futilely violent, and
she would have to take this quivering thing that housed her armoured
soul and make it do his service; she would have to undress him and wash
him so that Andrew, trotting in in the morning, should not see his
father in bed dirty; she would have to kiss away his ravings, soothe his
fears. Presently she shook her head many times. She knew that she could
never do that any more.
An hour, two hours passed. She sat quite still. Then a shadow crossed
the window and steps came on to the verandah. She did not move. Louis
stood by the door. Kraill was beside him. Louis looked quite sane, and
very unusually young and boyish. There was a queerly different look
about him. She stared at him for a moment; almost it seemed as though
she could see a shine about him for an instant. Then she looked at
Kraill, and he at her. She did not move, but her soul was on its knees
worshipping his beautiful, still eyes that were tragic no longer, but
very wise and sad. He read all that she did not say.
Louis coughed.
"Marcella--I'm sorry, old girl. Kraill has talked to me about it. He's
been--or rather--we've been bucking each other up."
He coughed awkwardly.
"Bucking each other up--no end, old lady," he added, and ran his hand
through his hair, making it wild, and rough.
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