“Don’t you find it wearisome?” she asked pityingly. She made me tell her all my doings, and she marvelled, but all the time her eyes were dubious and pitiful. “You have George here,” I said. “Yes. He’s in a poor state, but he’s not as sick as he was.” “What about the delirium tremens?” “Oh, he was better of that—very nearly—before he came here. He sometimes fancies they’re coming on again, and he’s terrified. Isn’t it awful! And he’s brought it all on himself. Tom’s very good to him.” “There’s nothing the matter with him—physically, is there?” I asked. “I don’t know,” she replied, as she went to the oven to turn a pie that was baking. She put her arm to her forehead and brushed aside her hair, leaving a mark of flour on her nose. For a moment or two she remained kneeling on the fender, looking into the fire and thinking. “He was in a poor way when he came here, could eat nothing, sick every morning. I suppose it’s his liver. They all end like that.” She continued to wipe the large black plums and put them in the dish. “Hardening of the liver?” I asked. She nodded. “And is he in bed?” I asked again. “Yes,” she replied. “It’s as I say, if he’d get up and potter about a bit, he’d get over it. But he lies there skulking.” “And what time will he get up?” I insisted. “I don’t know. He may crawl down somewhere towards tea-time. Do you want to see him? That’s what you came for, isn’t it?” She smiled at me with a little sarcasm, and added: “You always thought more of him than anybody, didn’t you? Ah, well, come up and see him.” I followed her up the back stairs, which led out of the kitchen, and which emerged straight in a bedroom. We crossed the hollow-sounding plaster-floor of this naked room and opened a door at the opposite side. George lay in bed watching us with apprehensive eyes. “Here is Cyril come to see you,” said Emily, “so I’ve brought him up, for I didn’t know when you’d be downstairs.” A small smile of relief came on his face, and he put out his hand from the bed. He lay with the disorderly clothes pulled up to his chin. His face was discoloured and rather bloated, his nose swollen. “Don’t you feel so well this morning?” asked Emily, softening with pity when she came into contact with his sickness. “Oh, all right,” he replied, wishing only to get rid of us. “You should try to get up a bit, it’s a beautiful morning, warm and soft—” she said gently. He did not reply, and she went downstairs.