stairs, and my heart sank, for I thought it was his mother. But it was Emily, in her long white nightgown. She looked at us with great dark eyes of terror, and whispered: What’s the matter?”
I shook my head and looked at him. His head had dropped down on his chest again.
“Is he hurt?” she asked, her voice becoming audible, and dangerous. He lifted his head, and looked at her with heavy, angry eyes.
“George!” she said sharply, in bewilderment and fear. His eyes seemed to contract evilly.
“Is he drunk?” she whispered, shrinking away, and looking at me. “Have you made him drunk—you?”
I nodded. I too was angry.
“Oh, if mother gets up! I must get him to bed! Oh, how could you!”
This sibilant whispering irritated him, and me. I tugged at his coat. He snarled incoherently, and swore. She caught her breath. He looked at her sharply, and I was afraid he would wake himself into a rage.
“Go upstairs!” I whispered to her. She shook her head. I could see him taking heavy breaths, and the veins of his neck were swelling. I was furious at her disobedience.
“Go at once,” I said fiercely, and she went, still hesitating and looking back.
I had hauled off his coat and waistcoat, so I let him sink again into stupidity while I took off my boots. Then I got him to his feet, and, walking behind him, impelled him slowly upstairs. I lit a
