He opens his eyes, hears breathing – realizes that he has slept in a kitchen chair next to his bed, where she is. His neck is stiff from the position he settled into. Startles when he realizes that it is a woman, sleeping in his bed, then remembers who she is.
She is pale, but somehow looks better. He does not want to wake her, but goes into the kitchen to prepare some tea, and puts on a record, as is his habit.
The kettle on, he walks over to get a slice of bread, and hits his shin on the edge of the stove where he has hit it so many times before. Oddly, though, it doesn't hurt, which he chalks up to his fatigue. He will have to start sleeping in the bed that he had bought for her, though it will be cramped with his tall frame.
He realizes that she has cried out. It's the first he's heard her voice since she went unconscious. He runs into the room, where she is sitting up, clutching her leg, eyes filmy with sleep and whatever has been keeping her unconscious.
A good-sized bruise has formed on her shin, about mid-way up. He forgets to be ashamed of seeing so much of her, and touches it experimentally, murmuring to her that it's all right, that he'd get some cool water for her.
When he goes to fetch a towel it hits him like a wave of nausea. He staggers back to the table, sits down, pulls up his trouser leg. Nothing, no bruises, just freckles.
He must try it out. Not thinking, he strides over and holds his hand in the column of steam that is erupting from the kettle. No pain, just the condensation. He hears her voice again from the bedroom, and runs in to find her clutching her hand.
"What the hell are you doing, you goddamn fool?" Realizes what she's said. Realizes what is happening. The blood comes then, flowing and hot, and he holds her until it stops. He is close enough to feel her heart beating, knows that his is pounding with the discovery.
"I'm sorry, Rosalind. I'm sorry. I had to…"
She smiles. "No, I'd have done the same, don't worry. Another compress for the hand, though, if you would."
He refreshes the first, gets another. He is not sure if he's imagining it, but the coolness is on his skin as well. He gets a notebook and starts writing.
"Why don't you use a voxophone?"
"A what?"
"A voxophone. They record your voice. Much faster, I've gone entirely over to the things."
Robert shakes his head. "No such thing."
"Hmph. I suppose you're going to tell me next that you don't have any servants. You've been running after everything yourself."
"One of the women down the way comes by once a week and cleans. But no, I don't know how I'd afford servants on my salary."
"Well, that's going to have to change, you know. I don't know how we can get science done if we're going to be looking after ourselves."
Robert blushes. "I thought you'd…I had assumed…"
He has never seen anything in his life like the look she gives him. It is a blend of imperiousness, pity, contempt, and a hectoring frustration. "I. Do. Not. Keep. House."
He finds it in himself to respond, tries to salvage a modicum of pride. "I'll be happy to get servants. When we can afford them."
She scoffs. "I'd best get inventing, then."