A passing waiter noticed that his glass was empty and came back with the gin bottle. He took up his glass and sniffed at it.He was overwhelmed by a desire not so much to get away . When he had gone fifty metres he looked back. The street was not crowded but already he could not distinguish her. But it had become the element he swam in. It was his life, his death, and his resurrection. It was gin that sank him into stupor every night, and gin that revived him every morning. When he woke, seldom before eleven hundred, with gummed-up eyelids and fiery mouth and a back that seemed to be broken, it would have been impossible even to rise from the horizontal if it had not been for the bottle and teacup placed beside the bed overnight. Through the midday hours he sat with glazed face, the bottle handy,The tears welled up in his eyes. No one cared what he did any longer, no whistle woke him.He followed irresolutely for a little distance, half a pace behind her. They did not speak again. She did not actually try to shake him off, but walked at just such a speed as to prevent his keeping abreast of her.

Above all, it would be warm in there. The next moment, he allowed himself to become separated from her by a small knot of people.