The porter, as he passed, lingered with vague
proffers of help, probably inspired by philanthropic passengers swelling
with the sense that "something ought to be done;" and one nervous man in a
skull-cap was audibly concerned as to the possible effect on his wife's
health.
The hours dragged on in a dreary inoccupation. Towards dusk she sat down
beside him and he laid his hand on hers. The touch startled her. He seemed
to be calling her from far off. She looked at him helplessly and his smile
went through her like a physical pang.
"Are you very tired?" she asked.
"No, not very."
"We'll be there soon now."
"Yes, very soon."
"This time to-morrow--"
He nodded and they sat silent. When she had put him to bed and crawled
into her own berth she tried to cheer herself with the thought that in
less than twenty-four hours they would be in New York. Her people would
all be at the station to meet her--she pictured their round unanxious
faces pressing through the crowd. She only hoped they would not tell him
too loudly that he was looking splendidly and would be all right in no
time: the subtler sympathies developed by long contact with suffering were
making her aware of a certain coarseness of texture in the family
sensibilities.
Suddenly she thought she heard him call. She parted the curtains and
listened. No, it was only a man snoring at the other end of the car. His
snores had a greasy sound, as though they passed through tallow.
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