He walked several blocks up the street.  His watch only registered 1.30.  He tried to think of some place to go or something to do.  The day was so bad he wanted only to be inside.  Finally his feet began to feel wet and cold, and he boarded a car.  This took him to Fifty-ninth Street, which was as good as anywhere else.  Landed here, he turned to walk back along Seventh Avenue, but the slush was too much.  The misery of lounging about with nowhere to go became intolerable.  He felt as if he were catching cold.

Stopping at a corner, he waited for a car south bound.  This was no day to be out; he would go home.

Carrie was surprised to see him at a quarter of three.

“It’s a miserable day out,” was all he said.  Then he took off his coat and changed his shoes.

That night he felt a cold coming on and took quinine.  He was feverish until morning, and sat about the next day while Carrie waited on him.  He was a helpless creature in sickness, not very handsome in a dull-colored bath gown and his hair uncombed.  He looked haggard about the eyes and quite old.  Carrie noticed this, and it did not appeal to her.  She wanted to be good-natured and sympathetic, but something about the man held her aloof.

Toward evening he looked so badly in the weak light that she suggested he go to bed.

“You’d better sleep alone,” she said, “you’ll feel better.  I’ll open your bed for you now.”

“All right,” he said.

As she did all these things, she was in a most despondent state.

“What a life!  What a life!” was her one thought.

Once during the day, when he sat near the radiator, hunched up and reading, she passed through, and seeing him, wrinkled her brows.  In the front room, where it was not so warm, she sat by the window and cried.  This was the life cut out for her, was it?  To live cooped up in a small flat with some one who was out of work, idle, and indifferent to her.  She was merely a servant to him now, nothing more.

This crying made her eyes red, and when, in preparing his bed, she lighted the gas, and, having prepared it, called him in, he noticed the fact.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked, looking into her face.  His voice was hoarse and his unkempt head only added to its gruesome quality.

“Nothing,” said Carrie, weakly.

“You’ve been crying,” he said.

“I haven’t, either,” she answered.

It was not for love of him, that he knew.

“You needn’t cry,” he said, getting into bed.  “Things will come out all right.”

In a day or two he was up again, but rough weather holding, he stayed in.  The Italian news dealer now delivered the morning papers, and these he read assiduously.  A few times after that he ventured out, but meeting another of his old-time friends, he began to feel uneasy sitting about hotel corridors.

Every day he came home early, and at last made no pretence of going anywhere.  Winter was no time to look for anything.