Kent's appointment with Beaufort next evening was for half-past eight,
outside the Café de la Paix. The sous remaining after the conversation
in the rue Saint-Honoré had gone for a nursery requirement, so he
was unable to sit down while he waited. His man was very late, and
he walked to and fro before the stretch of chairs and tables on the
boulevard for nearly an hour, tacitly confessing himself penniless
to every idler there. When Billy arrived at last, he began by saying
that his news was "not altogether unsatisfactory," whereat Humphrey's
heart sank, and when details were forthcoming, it appeared to him about
as unsatisfactory as it could possibly have been. Stripped of the
circumlocution by which the speaker sought to palliate its asperities,
the news was, that the completion of his business had been deferred
till Saturday, and that while he was confident of "touching" then, he
feared that he could do nothing in the meantime. Kent took no pains
to conceal his despondence. Seeing that he and Cynthia must leave the
boarding-house by noon, and get the nurse out of the way and into the
train by ten o'clock in the morning, "Saturday" sounded as hopeless
as Doomsday. He explained the urgency of the situation afresh, over
a _fine_, and, after reflection, Billy thought that, assisted by the
signature of somebody else, he could raise a hundred and fifty francs
in another quarter. When he had had a second _fine_ he was sure of it,
and bade Humphrey meet him there again on the morrow at a quarter to
two.
The following day was Thursday, and when Kent descended about eleven,
madame Garin requested him to sign the document her lawyer had drawn
up. After that had been done, and J duly witnessed--one may do anything
one likes in France excepting not pay--Kent told her that his wife
wished her to view the contents of the baby's trunk before it was
closed. As a matter of fact, it was a rather large one, and they
were anxious to avoid the possibility of its giving rise to remark
in front of servants at the moment of departure. She replied that
such an examination was not necessary; it would be sufficient if they
instructed their nurse to pack nothing that didn't belong to the little
one. This led to his informing her that the girl was quitting their
service, and, to his horror, madame Garin said frigidly:
"You know what I have consented to, monsieur? The things of the child;
and for madame Kent and yourself what is enough for one week. Nothing
else."
"My God!" exclaimed Kent with a gasp; "you don't mean to say you won't
let the girl take her box?"
"But certainly I mean it," she returned. "It was perfectly understood.
I have already been too liberal."
"But--but--heavens above!" he stammered, "the girl doesn't owe you
anything! My wife is dismissing her, so as to keep our humiliation from
her knowledge, madame. If you refuse to let her box go, the exposure is
complete!"
The proprietress shrugged her shoulders: "That does not concern me!"
This time Kent literally lacked the courage to tell Cynthia what had
occurred. He went out, and dropped on to the first bench that he came
to, sick in his soul. What was the use now if Beaufort did bring him
the money when they met? The girl could not be sent home without her
luggage, and they would have to make a clean breast of the whole affair
to her, and beg her to be tolerant with them. Cynthia had been very
plucky; she had taken the disappointment of last night like a brick,
and was at the moment full of hope for the result of the appointment
at a quarter to two; but he felt that this unexpected blow would surely
crush her. It was the death-stroke to their scheme and entailed even
more mortification than they had feared originally. He was at the
foot of the Champs Elysées, and he sat staring with wide eyes at the
passers-by--at the bonnes, big of bosom, with the broad, bright ribbons
depending from their caps; at the children with their hoops, and the
women in knicker-bockers, flashing through the sunshine on their
bicycles. Paris looked so light-hearted that woe seemed incongruous in
it.
Now, it happened, about half an hour subsequent to his leaving the
house, that Cynthia decided to go with her baby and the nurse for a
walk. Halfway down the stairs it was perceived that something had been
forgotten, and she continued the descent alone. To her dismay, she saw
the gaunt figure of madame Garin standing at the office door, and as
she came timorously down the last flight, the proprietress stood with
folded arms, watching her. Perhaps her nervousness was very evident;
perhaps the other had been sorrier for her than she had shown; but as
the girl reached the hall the grim old woman moved towards her, and,
with a gesture that said as plainly as words, "Oh, you poor little
soul!" took her face between her hands, and kissed her on the forehead.
"Listen," she said; "that's all right about the box of your servant--be
easy!"
Cynthia murmured a response to her kindness without realising what was
meant.
Presently Kent became aware that, among the stream of nurses and
infants flowing up from the place de la Concorde, were his own nurse
and infant, and that Cynthia accompanied them. She recognised him
before they reached the bench, and coming over to him with surprise,
sat down. And then each spoke of what the other did not know.
"What a half-hour you have had!" she cried when she understood.
And he exclaimed:
"But the relief! Heaven be praised you came this way!"
Their fate now hung once more on what Billy Beaufort would have to say,
and Kent sped to the rendez-vous with restored energy. By the clock in
the middle of the road it was twenty minutes to two when he reached
the Café de la Paix, and, as before, it was impossible for him to take
a chair. He rolled a thin cigarette with a morsel of tobacco that
remained in his pouch, and paced his beat, smoking. At two o'clock
Billy had not come. He had not come at half-past two. Kent doubted if
this augured well for the tidings that were to be communicated, but he
fortified himself by remembering that he awaited a man who was rarely
punctual in any circumstances. Nevertheless, the later it became,
the worse the chance looked, and when the clock pointed to three, he
began to lose both hope and patience. At a quarter to four there was
still no sign of Beaufort. The watcher's feet ached, and the pavement
seemed to grow harder, and his boots to get tighter, with every turn.
A little tobacco-dust lurked in the corners of his pouch--he thanked
God to see it; and carefully, as if it had been dust of gold, he shook
it on to a paper, and assuaged his weariness and rage with another
cigarette. Beaufort meant the success or the failure of their plan, and
while he had but scant expectation of his turning up now, he dared; not
go away. He promised himself to go at four, but at four dreaded lest
he might miss him just by five minutes and determined to stop until
a quarter past. Despair had mastered him wholly when a cab rattled
to a standstill and, forgetting! the pain of his feet, he saw Billy
spring out. A glance, however, assured him that the waiting had been
to no purpose; and after Billy had made many apologies, and recounted
a series of misadventures, his statement was that he was unable to
obtain any money until Saturday afternoon.
Kent dragged himself home, and Cynthia and he sat with bowed heads.
"We're done," said Humphrey, "and that's all about it! I must tell the
girl we can't pay our bills and are turned out. But _she's_ always been
paid up to the present; what's it to do with her, after all?"
"We _won't_ be done!" declared Cynthia; "we won't! Humphrey, if--if I
wrote----"
"No, by Jove!" he said; "I do bar that. We've kept our affairs from
your people all along, and we won't give ourselves away now.... Do you
mind very much?"
She did, but lied nobly.
"You're perfectly right," she answered; "I was a coward to think of it."
Kent squeezed her hand.
"You're a trump," he said. "Little woman, I've another idea--Turquand!"
She was breathless.
"Beautiful!"
"If Turquand has got it, Turquand will lend it; but--but _has_ he?
Well, it's worth trying. Let's see: I can catch the post; he'll get
the letter in the morning. If he answered on the instant, we could
have the money to-morrow night. Good Lord! how tired I am! Where's the
stationery?"
He dashed off a note begging his friend to send five pounds ten--or
six pounds, if he could manage to spare so much--immediately, and then
he remembered that he could not buy a stamp. There was a sick pause;
defeat confronted them again.
"There's nothing for it," he said; "I must go and ask the Garins! I'd
post it without one if we were in England, but here----"
He left her walking about the room in excitement and went down.
The bureau was shut; he learnt that the women were out.
"Do you think Nurse herself has got one?" he suggested, coming back,
"or--or twenty-five centimes?"
"She is out, too. She took baby ten minutes ago.... Humphrey!"
"Another inspiration?"
"The bottles!" she cried triumphantly, pointing to the wardrobe. "There
are three!"
On an empty bottle of the wine that they sometimes boiled in the
evening, two sous were refunded if a customer chose to give himself
the trouble to take it back. They had had occasion to acquire the
knowledge. Kent pulled the bottles out, and, after an abortive effort
to make a parcel of them, caught up his letter and ran to the shop. He
got thirty centimes--bolted to the post-office, and saved the mail.
Nothing could be done now but pray that Turquand might be in a position
to oblige him.
In the meantime the young woman--all unconscious of the jeopardy in
which it had been--packed her box calmly in the room behind their door,
and prepared for her departure on Saturday morning with the composure
of one whose ticket and wages were as good as in her purse. By Friday
evening the box was corded and labelled. When Kent and Cynthia entered
and beheld it so, suspense tightened its grip about their hearts.
The mail would not be delivered until about nine o'clock, and when they
judged that the hour was near, they sat with tense nerves, straining
to hear Etienne's heavy footsteps on the landing. As yet they had not
arranged where to remove to on the morrow, and they spoke disjointedly
of the necessity for deciding something. Kent said that it would be
desirable to have two rooms in the new place also; then they would be
able to talk when the baby was asleep; in one room it would be awful.
This assumption that the nurse would not be with them was followed by
intensified misgivings, and in her imagination both saw her sitting on
her tin box, with her hat on, while they faltered to her that after
all, she couldn't go.
"If it comes in the morning, you know," he said, at the end of a long
silence, "it will be in time. Her train doesn't start till ten."
"Y-e-s," said Cynthia; "she _expects_ it to-night.... Is that some one
coming upstairs?"
"Nobody," answered Kent, listening intently.... "No, her train doesn't
start till ten. I don't think, in point of fact, that we can look for
it to-night. You see----"
"We needn't _give up_ if it hasn't come when we go to bed."
"No; that's what I mean. One must allow for--hark!... no; it's
nothing--one must allow for him having to----"
Cynthia uttered a cry.
"It _is_! Come in--entrez--yes!"
Etienne appeared.
"A letter for monsieur!"
Kent snatched it from his hand; it was from Turquand. He tore it
open. Postal orders for six pounds dazzled their eyes. In pencil was
scribbled: "Here you are, sonny!--Yours ever, TURK."
Cynthia gave a hysterical laugh. They were say.
Ten minutes later, after she had blessed Turquand and her eyes were
dried, she opened the door or the adjoining room with great dignity,
and said:
"By the way, Nurse, I had better give you your money now. You can
change enough postal orders for your ticket, you know, opposite the
station."
Then she came back radiant. And Kent said salvation must be celebrated
and, as their cab next day wouldn't cost ten shillings, they would go
out on the Boulevard and drink Turquand's health--and buy some tobacco
on the way.
Compared with what their state of mind had been, they were supremely
contented now that the danger of their servant witnessing their
disgrace was over; and in the morning, when they had bidden her
good-bye, and watched her drive away, and their misfortunes were
nobody's business but their own, they drew a breath of veritable
thanksgiving.
Cynthia's trunks, and Humphrey's, and his hat-box, and the
dressing-case that somebody had given to the girl as a wedding-present,
were drawn together in a corner of the room to be left behind; and,
with intermittent attentions to the baby, they stored their toilet
articles, and all the linen that it would hold, in the hand-bag that
was to be taken with them. The bassinet was already shut up and sewn
in its canvas wrapper; and the blankets, and such of the child's
clothing as would not go in its box, had been packed downstairs in the
perambulator. There was nothing further to do but to put the oatmeal,
and the saucepan, and a few other infantile necessaries, in a basket.
Leaving Cynthia to collect these, Kent hurried out to obtain
accommodation at an hotel. He went first to the one where they
had stayed on their arrival--it was close at hand. But all the
communicating rooms were occupied, and he was forced to try somewhere
else. Jordan, who had done "Turf Topics" for _The World and his Wife_,
had once mentioned to him a place in the rue de Constantinople as
being cheap and comfortable, and he bent his steps there impatiently,
regretting that they had not made their arrangements earlier. The
mother had intended to see to the matter, in order to be sure that
everything, was suitable, and that there wasn't a draught from the
window, and the rest of it, but, being so much worried, she had put it
off.
When he reached the address in the rue de Constantinople, he was not
favourably impressed. The terms were low, but the proprietress seemed
so, too; and, though her manner was jovial enough, and the place looked
clean, he hesitated to settle with her. After he had tried at an hotel
in the rue des Soeurs Filandières, at which he was obliged to own that
the rate was higher than he was prepared to pay, he decided that he
had been hypercritical and went back; but, as ill-luck would have it,
the woman had let the apartments that she had shown him five minutes
after he left. It was mi-carême, and the streets were beginning to be
blocked by sight-seers. He remembered that Cynthia would be sitting
anxiously in the chaotic bedroom, wandering why he was gone so long;
and, hurrying through the crowd, he returned to the rue des Soeurs
Filandières and said he had changed his mind.
He was glad when he had done so. It was for only a week, perhaps for
less; and there was a chambermaid who would be willing to assist
madame with the little one when she could, since madame found herself
temporarily without a bonne. She had a cock eye, but she seemed to have
a good heart, and Kent assured her that any extra services that she
might render should be rewarded.
He made for the boarding-house at his best pace and told the waiter to
send for a cab constructed to carry luggage on the roof. Cynthia was in
a chair, with the baby on her lap, and she looked up eagerly. On the
table was a tray with luncheon, for which she would have been unable
to go down, even if she had had the audacity; and she explained that
madame Garin, finding that she did not appear, had sent it up to her,
unasked. Cynthia had not been hungry, but that was very nice of madame
Garin! They were not entitled to déjeuner to-day.
The little basket was ready now, and Kent cast a gloomy glance at the
impedimenta that were to be detained, questioning if he could manage
to distribute more than three francs among the servants. Almost at the
same moment there was a knock, and Etienne entered.
"I have called a cab," he announced surlily. "The patronne says there
is no need for a voiture en galérie, because monsieur must not take his
trunks."
The colour fell from their faces, and for a second they stood dumb and
stock-still.
"Oh yes," stammered Kent at last, "we are leaving our heaviest
trunks--we are going to send for them. But we need a voiture en
galérie, all the same. I will speak to madame Garin."
He found her erect in the hall in her favourite attitude, her arms
folded across her flat breast. Her face was as pale as his own, and her
eyes were angry. He looked at her amazed.
"I don't understand your message, madame," he murmured. "I cannot have
a voiture en galérie? But it is for the things you have allowed!"
"Not at all!" she exclaimed. "What do you suppose you will remove from
my house? You will take 'what I have allowed'? But you need no voiture
en galérie for that!"
"Pray speak quietly," he implored. "Look, there's the perambulator over
there; and there are the box and bassinet! Of course they must go on
the roof of a cab, we can't put them inside."
"Zut!" she answered; "I do not permit you to take such things. I will
watch what you take. Fetch your things down!"
"Do you mean to say," muttered Kent with dry lips, "that at the last
moment you refuse to let us take the child's bassinet?"
"I never consented to it. You lie!"
"Good God!" he said. "Isn't mademoiselle Garin at home? I want to see
mademoiselle--where is she?"
"My daughter is out. No; you will not take the bassinet, and you will
not take the perambulator. You will take what you can carry in the
hand, and that is all."
"The perambulator we _must_ have," he insisted. "If you keep the
bassinet, you must let us have the perambulator--the child's bedding
and half its clothes are in it."
"Never!" she repeated, and hugged herself determinedly.
"You have had my acknowledgment of the debt, and then you repudiate the
agreement," said Kent, trembling with passion. "It is very honest, such
behaviour!"
"'Honest'?" she echoed. "Ha! ha! it was perhaps 'honest' that you came
here with your wife, and your little one, and your nurse, to live in
my house, and eat at my table, and did not pay me for it? You are a
thief--you are a rogue and a thief!"
His fingers twitched to smash some man in the face.
"And the box?" he gasped, fighting for the ground inch by inch. "Do you
allow _that_?"
"Never, never, never! Go and fetch your things down!"
He went up slowly with weak knees. Cynthia was standing in the middle
of the room, pale and frightened. She had her hat on; the baby, dressed
for the streets, was clasped in her arms.
"She won't let the luggage go," said Kent hoarsely. "God knows what's
come to her--_I_ don't! Perhaps she thinks we were trying to get out
more than was arranged; she swears now that she promised nothing. Come
on; it's no good waiting. There's a cab at the door, let's go!"
"But--but what shall we do?" faltered the girl. "Humphrey, Baby _must_
have his things; it's impossible to do without them! Oh, this is awful!"
"Awful or not, we must put up with it. For Heaven's sake, let's get out
of the damned place as fast as we can! Where were the most important
things put?"
"I don't know--they are everywhere," she declared tremulously. "I want
the basket when we get in; but afterwards I want the box, and the
bedding--I want everything of Baby's. She must be a perfect wretch!"
He seized the basket and the hand-bag, and they descended the stairs,
the baby crying loudly, and the tears dripping down the girl's cheeks.
Fortunately, the boarders had all gone to see the procession; but
madame Garin was still where Kent had left her, and Etienne, and
the chambermaid, and the Italian waiter, suppressing a smile, stood
watching about the hall. In an agony of shame that seemed as if it
would suffocate her, Cynthia slunk past them to the cab, her head
bent low over the child, and as the driver opened the door, she fell,
rather than sank, on to the seat. Kent made to follow her immediately,
but this was not to be. Madame Garin stopped him. She commanded him
to display the contents of the bag; and then ensued a scene in which
she became a mouthing, shrieking harridan. Remonstrance was futile.
Collars, stockings, handkerchiefs, slippers, were wrested from him
piece by piece, and flung on the office floor, while she loaded him
with abuse, and the servants nudged one another, grinning. Kent clung
to the basket like grim death, but the hand-bag, when she threw it back
at his feet at last, had been emptied of so much that he dreaded to
guess what was left in it. He picked it up without a word, and scurried
through the hail, and plunged into the fiacre. Even then the ordeal
was not over. As the man mounted to the box, a woman approached with
whom they had grown rather friendly in the house, and, seeing Humphrey
with the bag, she came to the cab-window and put amiable and maddening
questions as to where they were going and when they were coming back.
Kent was voiceless, but Cynthia leant forward and replied. In the midst
of his misery and abasement, he admired his wife for the composure she
contrived to simulate in such a moment.
On reaching the hotel it was necessary to invent some story to account
for the absence of luggage, and he remarked as carelessly as possible
that it would be delivered on the morrow. He had ordered luncheon to
be ready for them; and in the room intended for Cynthia and the boy a
fire had been lighted. She flew to the basket, and boiled some oatmeal
while Kent endeavoured to soothe the mite, whose meal had been delayed
by the disturbance, and who cried as if he would never be pacified any
more. When the food was cooked, and something like order was restored,
the luncheon was allowed to be brought up, the fillet overdone, and the
potatoes hard and stiff. However, after what they had been through,
it tasted to them delicious; and emboldened by the thought that there
would be no bill for a week, Kent told the waiter to take away the
wine that was included and to bring them a bottle of burgundy instead.
The wine put heart into them both, and as their fatigue passed, they
drew their chairs to one of the windows, and found courage to discuss
the situation, while they gazed at the little ornamental garden at the
corner of the street.
The baby slept, tucked in the quilt of the high; big bed, and Cynthia
said that by-and-by he must be put inside the bed for the night, in the
frock that he had on. Every minute revealed some further deficiency.
They opened the bag, and they had neither brushes, nor sponges, and
but a single comb. Yet she laughed again, for instinctively she
realised that she was at the apex of her opportunity--that at such a
crisis a wife must be either a solace or an affliction; she realised,
that, whatever happened to them during the rest of their lives, there
would be moments when he looked back on their experiences in Paris
and remembered how she had behaved. As they sat there beside the open
window, with the remainder of the bottle of burgundy between them, and
a smile forced to her lips, the philistine might have been a bohemian
born and bred. Again Kent marvelled silently at her pluck.
By the time the dinner was laid their nerves were almost as equable as
their speech. But this renewed calmness received a sudden shock. It was
the rule of the proprietress, they were told politely, to ask for a
deposit from strangers, and she would be obliged if monsieur Kent would
let her have twenty or thirty francs, purely as a matter of form.
Cynthia started painfully, and Kent refastened the paper of his
cigarette before he answered.
"Certainly," he said. "Is thirty francs enough? I've only a cheque in
my pocket, but tell madame I'll give her the money to-night."
When the waiter had withdrawn, he and Cynthia looked at each other
aghast. Their breathing-space had been brief. They knew that their
having no luggage had made the woman suspicious of them, and that,
unless they were to be promptly turned out here as well, the thirty
francs must be found. Dinner had to be eaten, lest they should appear
discomfited by the message; but the coffee was no sooner swallowed than
Kent prepared to go out. Swearing to obtain two or three louis before
they slept, and reminding the girl that if Beaufort's expectations
had been fulfilled he would now be in a position to let them have
much more, he went to search for Billy among his various haunts. The
streets were massed, and the slow pace permitted by the mob infuriated
him. All Paris seemed to have surged on to the Boulevard, thronging
the pavements and the roads, and playing the fool. He pushed forward
as best he could, and tried the Grand, in the faint hope that the
other might be dining there, or that something could be learnt of his
movements, but he was able to learn nothing. After all, he thought, it
would have been wiser to inquire at the bar in the rue Saint-Honoré;
and retracing his steps, he now pressed through the crowd in the
direction of the Madeleine, impeded and pelted with confetti at every
yard. At the corner of the rue Caumartin a clown in scarlet satin
thrust a pasteboard nose into his face. Kent; cursed him and shoved him
aside, and the buffoon spun into the arms of a couple of shop-girls,
who received him with shrill screams. The concourse appeared to grow
noisier and more impenetrable every moment. It was the first mi-carême
celebration that the young man had witnessed, and with fever in his
veins, and wretchedness in every fibre of him, this carnival confusion,
with its horseplay and hindrance, was maddening. The lamplight sparkled
with the rain of coloured discs--they were pitched into his eyes and
his ears as he struggled on--the asphalt was soft and heavy with them.
When he reached the Madeleine things were better. But at the buffet
Beaufort had not been seen since five o'clock. Somebody there believed
that he had an appointment at nine at the Café de la Paix. Kent edged
into the throng again, and forged his way until the café was gained.
The figure that he sought was in none of the rooms. He squeezed along
to all the likeliest cafés on the Boulevard in turn, and in one of
them he descried Jordan, whom he buttonholed eagerly. Yes, Jordan had
met Beaufort this evening. Beaufort had said that later on he might
go to the Moulin Rouge. This was a clue, at least, and Kent tramped
wearily until the glittering sails of the windmill revolved in view.
The price of admission had been raised to-night, but he could not
hesitate. The dancing had already begun, and two-thirds of the assembly
ran about in fancy dress. A quadrille was going on, and in different
parts of the ballroom three sets were enclosed by vociferous, English
spectators, while the band brayed a tuneless measure. His gaze roved
among the company vainly, and he thought that he would be able to make
his examination better when the sets broke up. The listless dancers,
with stuff skirts and elaborate, be-ribboned petticoats lifted to their
shoulders, looked like factory hands as they lumped perfunctorily over
the floor. Momentarily a mechanical smile alleviated the gloom of their
excessive plainness; at long intervals, spurred to energy by the cries
of the audience, one of them gave a kick higher than usual, or threw
a bit of slang to her vis-à-vis; but for the most part the performers
were as spiritless as marionettes; the air of gaiety and interest was
confined entirely to those who looked on.
It was midnight when Beaufort was found, and he was partially drunk.
Kent caught him by the arm, and heard that his business had not been
completed to-day, but was--once more--"certain for next week."
Completed or not, however, Kent had to have money, and he made the
circumstances clear, a task which, in his companion's condition, was
somewhat difficult. He said that they were in new quarters, penniless,
and that the woman demanded a deposit; their luggage was detained at
the Garins', and could not be recovered unless he paid the bill, or,
at all events, a substantial portion of it. In the meanwhile, they
possessed literally nothing; a good round sum on account of his claim
was absolutely essential. Billy was "tremendously grieved." He answered
that he could "manage--twenty francs." And he repeated with emotion
that "he never deserted a pal." In the end Kent extracted fifty, and,
secretly relieved even by this, but dog-tired, dragged himself down the
rue Blanche towards the hotel.
Cynthia was waiting up for him, reading a sheet of an old newspaper
that had lined one of the drawers, to keep herself awake. She heard
the result of his expedition with gratitude. They could now give the
proprietress what she wanted, and would be able to buy a hairbrush and
one or two other immediate necessaries. She kissed him, and retired to
the next bedroom, where she prayed that the child would allow her a
good night. Kent, whose fatigue was so great that it was a labour to
undress, bade her call him if he could help her in any way.
It seemed but a few minutes afterwards that he was startled back to
consciousness by the baby's crying, and, listening in the darkness, he
heard Cynthia moving about. Blundering to the door with half-opened
eyes, he found her trying to quiet the boy, and to heat some food at
the same time, and the weariness of her aspect made his heart bleed.
The fire, which had been built up to last until the chambermaid's
entrance, had gone out, and rocking the child on her lap with one hand,
the girl, semi-nude, held a saucepan with the other over the flame of a
candle. She rebuked him for coming in, for, "poor fellow! he must be so
tired." He took the saucepan from her and, fetching the candle from his
own room, held the food to warm over both flames, while Maternity paced
the floor. A clock in the distance told them that the hour was three.
At last a tremor stirred the placid surface of the milk. The baby was
fed, and coaxed to repose again. And, oblivious now of everything but
the need for sleep, they dropped upon their beds and slept.