A dry sob checked his mumbling. He shook his head, slightly. His heavy eyes closed. She stood staring at him and holding the door partly open. Twice she clutched the knob in nervous fingers as though to slam the door in his face and bolt out this pallid spectre of the past. She could not stir. “What is the matter with you?” she finally forced herself to ask. He opened his sick eyes: “Hunger--I guess----” “You may have money if you need it. Is that what you want?” He seemed to summon strength to stand upright and pass his bloodless fingers over his face. “It’s all right,” he muttered thickly; “I didn’t mean to bother you----” He turned as though to go, steadying himself with one shaky hand on the stoop railing. At the door-step he stumbled, swayed, but recovered. “Stuart!” she burst out, “come back!” He pulled himself together; turned toward her: “I don’t want money.... I’m too sick----” “Wait! You can’t go into the street that way!...” He seemed so shaky and confused that she took hold of his ragged arm. Very slowly, and supported by her, he entered the doorway. They climbed the stairs together, wearily, in silence. Hattie usually went home at night and arrived, by key, early in the morning. Eris unlocked her door, lighted the corridor, went on to the living-room and lighted that. Then she returned to her husband and led the way to the kitchen and pantry and lighted them both. “There is a chair,” she said. “I’ll make you some hot coffee.” She flung a cloth over the kitchen table, laid a cover, brought what there was in the ice-box,--cold lamb, sardines, butter, fruit. She went again to the pantry and sliced bread for him. Then she started the gas range in the kitchen. “I’m putting you to a great deal of trouble,” he mumbled. She paid him no attention but went on with her preparations. When finally she returned with the steaming coffee she found he had eaten nothing. However, he drank some of the coffee. After that he slumped on his chair, dazed, inert, his lack-lustre gaze on the floor. But his bony, bloodless fingers--those long, clever, nimble fingers she remembered--picked aimlessly at everything--at his face, at his clothing, at the sliced bread. “Have you been ill long?” she forced herself to ask. He mumbled something. She bent nearer to understand, but he fell silent, continuing to pick and fumble and stare at space. “Do you feel very ill, Stuart? I want you to tell me.” “If I could have--a little whiskey--or something--to buck up----” She rose, got the gift bottle that she had been saving; brought it to him with a tumbler; left him there with it. As she turned her back and walked nervously toward the front of the house, he peeped after her out of shadowy eyes, not lifting his head. Then he poured out half a glass of neat whiskey, steadily enough, swallowed it, looked around.