So did the old man, otherwise still unchanged in attitude; so, probably, did the old woman in her dimmer part of the room.

Then the sick woman was ready for bed.
'Good night, Arthur.

Affery will see to your accommodation.

Only touch me, for my hand is tender.' He touched the worsted muffling of her hand--that was nothing; if his mother had been sheathed in brass there would have been no new barrier between them--and followed the old man and woman down-stairs.
The latter asked him, when they were alone together among the heavy shadows of the dining-room, would he have some supper?
'No, Affery, no supper.' 'You shall if you like,' said Affery.

'There's her tomorrow's partridge in the larder--her first this year; say the word and I'll cook it.' No, he had not long dined, and could eat nothing.
'Have something to drink, then,' said Affery; 'you shall have some of her bottle of port, if you like.