THE RED ROOM

By H. G. Wells

"It's your own choosing," said the man with the withered arm once more.

I heard the faint sound of a stick and a shambling step on the flags in

the passage outside. The door creaked on its hinges as a second old man

entered, more bent, more wrinkled, more aged even than the first. He

supported himself by the help of a crutch, his eyes were covered by

a shade, and his lower lip, half averted, hung pale and pink from his

decaying yellow teeth. He made straight for an armchair on the opposite

side of the table, sat down clumsily, and began to cough. The man with

the withered hand gave the newcomer a short glance of positive dislike;

the old woman took no notice of his arrival, but remained with her eyes

fixed steadily on the fire.

"I said--it's your own choosing," said the man with the withered hand,

when the coughing had ceased for a while.

It's my own choosing," I answered.

The man with the shade became aware of my presence for the first time,

and threw his head back for a moment, and sidewise, to see me. I caught

a momentary glimpse of his eyes, small and bright and inflamed. Then he

The Red Room