welcomed with the clang of empty milk-cans for the West.
After long silence she lifted her great eyes, and, with an innocence that would have deceived any sound man, asked Conroy to call her maid to bring her a forgotten book.
Conroy shook his head. 'No. Our sort can't read. Don't!'
'Were you sent to watch me?' The voice never changed.
'Me? I need a keeper myself much more—this night of all!'
'This night? Have you a night, then? They disbelieved me when I told them of mine.' She leaned back and laughed, always slowly. 'Aren't doctors stu-upid? They don't know.'
She leaned her elbow on her knee, lifted her veil that had fallen, and, chin in hand, stared at him. He looked at her—till his eyes were blurred with tears.
'Have I been there, think you?' she said.
'Surely—surely,' Conroy answered, for he had well seen the fear and the horror that lived behind the heavy-lidded eyes, the fine tracing on the broad forehead, and the guard set about the desirable mouth.
'Then—suppose we have one—just one apiece? I've gone without since this afternoon.'
He put up his hand, and would have shouted, but his voice broke.
'Don't! Can't you see that it helps me to help you to keep it off? Don't let's both go down together.'
