When a man like that lets go--nothing left to
hold on to--he goes down hill at ten times the pace of an ordinary
chap. I--I--suppose I may as well tell you the whole truth. He never
drew a sober breath on the steamer and he's been drunk more or less
ever since he arrived in New York. Of course he writes--has to--but
can't hold down any responsible position. They'd be glad to give him
the best salary paid if he'd sober up, but he gets worse instead of
better. He's been thrown off two papers already; and it's only
because he can write better drunk than most men sober that he sells
an article now and again when he has to."
Madeleine had torn her handkerchief to pieces. She no longer wept.
Her eyes were wide with horror. He fancied he saw awful visions in
them. Fearing she might faint or have hysterics, he hastily extracted
a brandy flask from his pocket.
"Do you mind?" he asked diffidently. "Sorry I haven't a glass, but
this is the first time I've taken the cork out."
She lifted the flask obediently and took a draught that commanded
his respect.
She smiled faintly as she met his wide-eyed regard. "My husband
makes me live on this stuff. I was threatened with consumption. It
affects me very little, but it helps me in more ways than one."
"Well, don't let it help you too much.
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