Yet there was about him this
physical slackness, a reluctance in his slow, sure movements. His eyes
were keen under his dark brows, but reluctant also, as if he were
gloomily apathetic.
There was a halt. The publican evidently would say nothing. Berry looked
at the mahogany bar-counter, slopped with beer, at the whisky-bottles on
the shelves. Sutton, his cap pushed back, showing a white brow above a
weather-reddened face, rubbed his cropped hair uneasily.
The publican glanced round suddenly. It seemed that only his dark eyes
moved.
'Going up?' he asked.
And something, perhaps his eyes, indicated the unseen bed-chamber.
'Ay--that's what I came for,' replied Sutton, shifting nervously from one
foot to the other. 'She's been asking for me?'
'This morning,' replied the publican, neutral.
Then he put up a flap of the bar, and turned away through the dark
doorway behind. Sutton, pulling off his cap, showing a round,
short-cropped head which now was ducked forward, followed after him, the
buttons holding the strap of his great-coat behind glittering for a
moment.
They climbed the dark stairs, the husband placing his feet carefully,
because of his big boots. Then he followed down the passage, trying
vaguely to keep a grip on his bowels, which seemed to be melting away,
and definitely wishing for a neat brandy. The publican opened a door.
Sutton, big and burly in his great-coat, went past him.
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