was your fault, provoking me. Have you brandy? I think a little brandy would restore me.''
He has drawn out his handkerchief, and now presses it to his arm. I say, ''I have no brandy.''
''No brandy. What have you, then? Some draught or other? Come, I see by your face that you do.'' He looks about him. ''Where is it kept?''
I hesitate; but now he has named it, the desire for drops begins to
rnake its creeping way about my heart and limbs. ''In my leather bag,'' I say. He brings the bottle to me, draws out its stopper, puts his nose to it, grimaces. ''Bring me a glass, also,'' I say. He finds a cup, adds a little dusty water.
''Not like that, for me,'' he says, as I let the medicine slip. ''That will serve for you. I want it quicker.'' He takes the bottle from me, uncovers his cut, lets a single drop fall into the parted flesh. It stings. He winces. Where it runs, he licks it. Then he sighs, half closing his eyes, watching me as I drink then shiver then lean back upon my pillow, the cup at my breast.
At length, he smiles. He laughs. ''"The Fashionable Couple on their Wedding-Night,''" he says. ''They would write a column on us, in the London papers.''
I shiver again, draw the blankets higher; the sheet falls, covering the smears of blood. I reach for the bottle. He reaches it first, however, and puts it out of my grasp.