The bedroom seemed light and warm after the passage. There was a red
eider-down on the bed. Then, making an effort, Sutton turned his eyes to
see the sick woman. He met her eyes direct, dark, dilated. It was such a
shock he almost started away. For a second he remained in torture, as if
some invisible flame were playing on him to reduce his bones and fuse him
down. Then he saw the sharp white edge of her jaw, and the black hair
beside the hollow cheek. With a start he went towards the bed.
'Hello, Maud!' he said. 'Why, what ye been doin'?'
The publican stood at the window with his back to the bed. The husband,
like one condemned but on the point of starting away, stood by the
bedside staring in horror at his wife, whose dilated grey eyes, nearly
all black now, watched him wearily, as if she were looking at something a
long way off.
Going exceedingly pale, he jerked up his head and stared at the wall over
the pillows. There was a little coloured picture of a bird perched on a
bell, and a nest among ivy leaves beneath. It appealed to him, made him
wonder, roused a feeling of childish magic in him. They were wonderfully
fresh, green ivy leaves, and nobody had seen the nest among them save
him.
Then suddenly he looked down again at the face on the bed, to try and
recognize it. He knew the white brow and the beautiful clear eyebrows.
That was his wife, with whom he had passed his youth, flesh of his flesh,
his, himself.
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