Then he hovered in front of the stupefied man. He felt uneasy. Again he took Aaron's hand and felt the pulse.
"I'm sure you aren't well. You must go to bed," he said. And he kneeled and unfastened his visitor's boots. Meanwhile the kettle began to boil, he put a hot-water bottle into the bed.
"Let us get your overcoat off," he said to the stupefied man. "Come along." And with coaxing and pulling and pushing he got off the overcoat and coat and waistcoat.
At last Aaron was undressed and in bed. Lilly brought him tea. With a dim kind of obedience he took the cup and would drink. He looked at Lilly with heavy eyes.
"I gave in, I gave in to her, else I should ha' been all right," he said.
"To whom?" said Lilly.
"I gave in to her—and afterwards I cried, thinking of Lottie and the children. I felt my heart break, you know. And that's what did it. I should have been all right if I hadn't given in to her—"
"To whom?" said Lilly.
"Josephine. I felt, the minute I was loving her, I'd done myself. And I had. Everything came back on me. If I hadn't given in to her, I should ha' kept all right."
"Don't bother now. Get warm and still—"
"I felt it—I felt it go, inside me, the minute I gave in to her. It's perhaps killed me."
"No, not it. Never mind, be still. Be still, and you'll be all right in the morning."
"It's my own fault, for giving in to her. If I'd kept myself back, my liver wouldn't have broken inside me, and I shouldn't have been sick. And I knew—"
"Never mind now. Have you drunk your tea? Lie down. Lie down, and go to sleep."
Lilly pushed Aaron down in the bed, and covered him over. Then he thrust his hands under the bedclothes and felt his feet—still cold. He arranged the water bottle. Then he put another cover on the bed.
