Jim's arms had an instinct
for taking her to his heart, but he felt that he must be more
respectful than ever since they were in so respectless a plight.
She never seemed purer and sadder to him than then.
She noted how haggard and dismal he looked, and said, "Aren't you
going to sit down?"
"No--not here," he said. "You curl up on that plush horror and get
some rest."
"I will not!" said Charity.
"You will, too," said Jim. "You're a wreck, and I ought to be shot.
Get some sleep, for God's sake!"
"What becomes of you?"
"I'll scout round and find a place in the office. I think there is
a billiard-room. If worst comes to worst, I'll do what Mrs. Leslie
Carter did in a play I saw--sleep on the dining-room table."
"Not less than a table d'hote will hold you," Charity smiled, wanly.
"Don't worry about me. You go by-by and pray the Lord to forgive me
and help us both."
He waved his hand to her in a heartbreak of bemocked and benighted
tenderness and closed the door. He prowled softly about the office
and the adjacent rooms, but found no place to sleep. He was in such
a fever of wrath at himself that he walked out in the rain to cool
his head. Then he sank into a chair, read an old Boston paper twice,
and fell asleep among the advertisements.
He woke at daybreak. The rain had ended and he wandered out in
the chill, wet grounds of the shabby inn. The morning light was
merciless on the buildings, the leafless trees, and on his own
costume.
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