The room was foul with the odour of spirits and tobacco
smoke. Monty himself was unkempt and unwashed, his eyes were
bloodshot, and he had fallen half across the table with the gesture
of a drunken man. At the sight of him her pity died away. After
all, then, the sobbing they had heard was the maudlin crying of a
drunken man. Yet he was very old, and there was something about
the childish, breathless fear with which he was regarding her which
made her hesitate. She lingered instead, and finding him
tongue-tied, spoke to him.
"We heard you talking to yourself downstairs," she said, "and we
were afraid that you might be in pain."
"Ah," he muttered, "That is all, then! There is no one behind you
- no one who wants me!"
"There is no one in the house," she assured him, "save my mother
and myself."
He drew a little breath which ended in a sob. "You see," he said
vaguely, "I sit up here hour by hour, and I think that I fancy
things. Only a little while ago I fancied that I heard Mr. Walsh's
voice, and he wanted the mission-box, the wooden box with the cross,
you know. I keep on thinking I hear him. Stupid, isn't it?"
He smiled weakly, and his bony fingers stole round the tumbler
which stood by his side. She shook her head at him smiling, and
crossed over to him.
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