"You've got a fine way to cure a
sick man!" he said; but she had concluded her appeal--for that
time--and instead of making any more words in the matter, let him
see that there were tears in her eyes, shook her head, and left
the room.
Alone, he lay breathing rapidly, his emaciated chest proving
itself equal to the demands his emotion put upon it. "Fine!" he
repeated, with husky indignation. "Fine way to cure a sick man!
Fine!" Then, after a silence, he gave forth whispering sounds as
of laughter, his expression the while remaining sore and far from
humour.
"And give us our daily bread!" he added, meaning that his wife's
little performance was no novelty.
CHAPTER II
In fact, the agitation of Mrs. Adams was genuine, but so well
under her control that its traces vanished during the three short
steps she took to cross the narrow hall between her husband's
door and the one opposite. Her expression was matter-of-course,
rather than pathetic, as she entered the pretty room where
her daughter, half dressed, sat before a dressing-table and
played with the reflections of a three-leafed mirror framed
in blue enamel. That is, just before the moment of her
mother's entrance, Alice had been playing with the mirror's
reflections--posturing her arms and her expressions, clasping her
hands behind her neck, and tilting back her head to foreshorten
the face in a tableau conceived to represent sauciness, then one
of smiling weariness, then one of scornful toleration, and all
very piquant; but as the door opened she hurriedly resumed the
practical, and occupied her hands in the arrangement of her
plentiful brownish hair.
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