THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
in his generosity he had intended doing might have been done without tragedy. He had wrecked her future without benefiting his own in the least. He was a thousand times a fool. He no longer kept up the farce of self-deception; he had hoped that some day she might learn to care for him. Blind, unhappy fool! She would now hate him until the end of her days.
Ruth broke in upon these melancholy cogitations. "My head aches very badly. You won't mind if I go to my room?"
"Good Lord, no!"
He went with her to the room he had engaged for her.
"Where … where is your room?"
So she was worrying about that? "On the other side," he lied. "All your things are here. Now, sister, you lie down and take it easy. I'll drop in around about six. And maybe a rickshaw ride along the water-front 'll brace you up."
At six he returned to find her delirious. She did not recognize him. Terrified, he ran down to the office and asked for a doctor. When the doctor came he reported that it was a case of brain fever.
"Will she die?"
"That depends. Plenty of ice-packs, a good nurse, proper care, and there's a chance for her. She looks as if she had natural vitality. Your wife?"
"Yes." Brain fever! God was already beginning his punishment.
"I take it, Mr. Grogan, that you're a tourist, so
305
