joy. He had six dollars for her to-night! He had sold the four Windsor chairs she had designed (she always did the designing) and the little table. But since Laetitia's news his joy had turned to shame. He wanted to hide the paltry six dollars. How far would six dollars go toward getting Sheilah out of this heat? Contempt for his trivial tinkering prodded Felix. Contempt for himself.
Contempt for himself was always sharper when Sheilah was sick or tired. It hurt terribly lately, because he knew now, and Sheilah knew too, that his failure was final. He was no longer young. His hair was grey at the temples, and his face bore deep lines and shadows. He looked years older than he really was, as he plodded home that night beside Laetitia, almost as tall as he. He had always stooped. He stooped more now. The leather bag, light as it was (it carried only his lunch each day, and sometimes the doll's furniture), dragged down one shoulder lower than the other. And he limped. For although Felix had never seen France he had been wounded in the war. It wasn't a wound he could boast of, however. One of the horses he had taken care of had kicked him in the back.
He tiptoed into Sheilah's presence ten minutes later.
