"It's because I can't get him away," she said wistfully. "And he's sick. Anybody can see that."
"A week or two more," Alden said, "until the works are running right. Then we'll go back to New York. I've had trouble replacing unsatisfactory workmen, and I can't make the government wait."
"New York!" the woman echoed.
"You've a doctor?" Garth asked.
"From the village," Alden answered. "I'm afraid he doesn't understand me."
"Then," Garth said firmly, "I should let the works go to blazes until I'd looked after myself."
Alden moved his hand vaguely.
"It's nothing—cold, maybe a touch of the gout. I sometimes suffer, and my nerves are a little under. Too much involved here, Mr. Garth. You couldn't afford to take chances with that."
Garth glanced at the room's luxurious furnishing.
"I couldn't," he answered captiously. "I'm not so sure about you."
It annoyed him that the lamp on the table failed to drive the shadows from the corners.
Mrs. Alden approached him timidly.
"You'll forgive our welcome? You'll try to understand? You may have noticed something about the fall in a remote place. It is very depressing here. If only you could persuade him to leave. You see we've no servants but old John. Shall I tell him to get you something—a whiskey and soda?"
