“Is that you, Gustav?”

He spoke some words that she could not understand.  Shutting the window quickly, she went toward him.  Light from the hall lit up one side of his face and figure.  He was pale; his eyes shone strangely; his sleeve was all white.  He said thickly: 

“Little ghost!” and then some words that must be Swedish.  It was the first time Gyp had ever come to close quarters with drunkenness.  And her thought was simply:  ‘How awful if anybody were to see—­how awful!’ She made a rush to get into the hall and lock the door leading to the back regions, but he caught her frock, ripping the lace from her neck, and his entangled fingers clutched her shoulder.  She stopped dead, fearing to make a noise or pull him over, and his other hand clutched her other shoulder, so that he stood steadying himself by her.  Why was she not shocked, smitten to the ground with grief and shame and rage?  She only felt:  “What am I to do?  How get him upstairs without anyone knowing?” And she looked up into his face—­it seemed to her so pathetic with its shining eyes and its staring whiteness that she could have burst into tears.  She said gently: 

“Gustav, it’s all right.  Lean on me; we’ll go up.”

His hands, that seemed to have no power or purpose, touched her cheeks, mechanically caressing.  More than disgust, she felt that awful pity.  Putting her arm round his waist, she moved with him toward the stairs.  If only no one heard; if only she could get him quietly up!  And she murmured: 

“Don’t talk; you’re not well.  Lean on me hard.”

He seemed to make a big effort; his lips puffed out, and with an expression of pride that would have been comic if not so tragic, he muttered something.

Holding him close with all her strength, as she might have held one desperately loved, she began to mount.  It was easier than she had thought.  Only across the landing now, into the bedroom, and then the danger would be over.  Done!  He was lying across the bed, and the door shut.  Then, for a moment, she gave way to a fit of shivering so violent that she could hear her teeth chattering yet could not stop them.  She caught sight of herself in the big mirror.  Her pretty lace was all torn; her shoulders were red where his hands had gripped her, holding himself up.  She threw off her dress, put on a wrapper, and went up to him.  He was lying in a sort of stupor, and with difficulty she got him to sit up and lean against the bed-rail.  Taking off his tie and collar, she racked her brains for what to give him.  Sal volatile!  Surely that must be right.  It brought him to himself, so that he even tried to kiss her.  At last he was in bed, and she stood looking at him.  His eyes were closed; he would not see if she gave way now.  But she would not cry—­she would not.  One sob came—­but that was all.  Well, there was nothing to be done now but get into bed too.  She undressed, and turned out the light.  He was in a stertorous sleep.  And lying there, with eyes wide open, staring into the dark, a smile came on her lips—­a very strange smile!  She was thinking of all those preposterous young wives she had read of, who, blushing, trembling, murmur into the ears of their young husbands that they “have something—­something to tell them!”