You know we're ordered to make up the berths as early as we can."

She turned cold with fear. They were just entering the station.

"Oh, not yet," she stammered. "Not till he's had his milk. Won't you get
it, please?"

"All right. Soon as we start again."

When the train moved on he reappeared with the milk. She took it from him
and sat vaguely looking at it: her brain moved slowly from one idea to
another, as though they were stepping-stones set far apart across a
whirling flood. At length she became aware that the porter still hovered
expectantly.

"Will I give it to him?" he suggested.

"Oh, no," she cried, rising. "He--he's asleep yet, I think--"

She waited till the porter had passed on; then she unpinned the curtains
and slipped behind them. In the semi-obscurity her husband's face stared
up at her like a marble mask with agate eyes. The eyes were dreadful. She
put out her hand and drew down the lids. Then she remembered the glass of
milk in her other hand: what was she to do with it? She thought of raising
the window and throwing it out; but to do so she would have to lean across
his body and bring her face close to his. She decided to drink the milk.

She returned to her seat with the empty glass and after a while the porter
came back to get it.