At midnight St. Peter was lying in his study, on his box-couch, covered up with blankets, a hot water bottle at his feet; he knew it was midnight, for the clock of Augusta’s church across the park was ringing the hour. Augusta herself was there in the room, sitting in her old sewing-chair by the kerosene lamp, wrapped up in a shawl. She was reading a little much-worn religious book that she always carried in her handbag. Presently he spoke to her.
“Just when did you come in, Augusta?”
She got up and came over to him.
“Are you feeling comfortable, Doctor St. Peter?”
“Oh, very, thank you. When did you happen in?”
“Not any too soon, sir,” she said gravely, with a touch of reproof. “You never would take my cautions about that old stove, and it very nearly asphyxiated you. I was barely in time to pull you out.”
“You pulled me out, literally? Where to?”
“Into the hall. I came over in the storm to ask you for the keys of the new house—I didn’t get Mrs. St. Peter’s letter until I got home from work this evening, and I came right over. When I opened the front door I smelled gas, and I knew that stove had been up to its old tricks. I supposed you’d gone out and forgot to turn it off. When I got to the second floor I heard a fall overhead, and it flashed across me that you were up here and had been overcome. I ran up and opened the two windows at the head of the stairs and dragged you out into the wind. You were lying on the floor.” She lowered her voice. “It was perfectly frightful in here.”