"I got in from New York this morning and I'm going home--that is, to Kansas City, this evening. Had to see Cleever here." "Is everything going well with you!" "Yes, that is--yes." "Business good!" "Fine." "Happy!" "Oh, yes--are you!" "Oh, yes," she said, then added "very." They paused. "Don't let me keep you if you have business," she suggested. "I haven't," he answered. He thought that never in his life had he seen her look so ill, but doubted how to speak of it. "You got all over your typhoid, of course," was the way he put it. "Oh, yes, completely." She read him as usual, and saw what was in his mind, that her appearance had shocked him. "Oh, don't look at me that way, Mason," she exclaimed suddenly; "I know I've gone off a lot, but don't rub it in." "You're nothing of the sort. You are a bit fagged out, that's all." "Yes," she said, "a bit fagged. Besides, I'm a staid, settled-down old thing--and you, perhaps you're married by this time. Are you?" "No." "Engaged, then!" She spoke casually, but there was a beating at her heart. "Not even that." She pressed the button for the car to stop. She had a morbid hope that she might still keep her secret from him. But when he helped her off the car and they started to walk toward her home, she saw it in his eyes. "You understand now?" she faltered. "Yes." They walked a hundred steps in silence. "Tell me one thing, Georgia," he said, "you _are happy_?" "Yes," she answered firmly. "That's all I care about." When they reached her door he gave her the package of white goods which he had been carrying. "Georgia," he said, as they shook hands good-bye, "remember this--if you ever need me, I'll come." "What do you mean by that?" "I mean if you ever need me I'll come--from anywhere." She looked down at her ungainly figure in wonderment. "Surely you don't mean that now. I'm--I'm so ridiculous." His voice choked. "God bless and keep you. God bless and keep you always, my dearest," he said, then went away. She walked slowly and heavily up to the third flight, carrying her burden. When she opened the door with her latchkey she found her mother in blue gingham apron, cleaning Mr. Kane's room. Mrs. Talbot paused in her operations. "Well," she vouchsafed, "Jim has turned up--just after you left. He's asleep in your room." "Drunk?" asked Georgia. "Of course," said Mrs. Talbot, emptying her carpet sweeper. XXVII THE NAPHTHALINE RIVER And oh, of all tortures That torture the worst, The terrible, terrible torture of thirst For the naphthaline river Of Passion accurst. --Poe. Jim was a dipsomaniac, not a villain. His vice made no one else so abysmally wretched as it made himself.