CHAPTER IV.
Mr. Marrapit Takes A Nice Warm Bath.
I.
As Mr. Marrapit had said, the disaster of the night had sped his complaint.
He appeared at breakfast. No word was spoken. He ate nothing.
Once only gave he sign of interest. Midway through the meal muffled sounds came to the breakfast party. Scufflings in the hall struck an attentive light in Mr. Marrapit's eyes; slam of the front door jerked him in his seat; wheels, hoofs along the drive drew his gaze to the window. A cab rolled past—a melancholy horse; a stout driver, legs set over a corded box; a black figure, bolt upright, handkerchief to eyes.
The vision passed. Mr. Marrapit gazed upwards; his thin lips moved.
Vulgar curiosity shall not tempt us to pry into the demeanour with which, an hour earlier, this man had borne himself in the study with Mrs. Major. Of that unhappy woman's moans, of her explanations, of the tears that poured from her eyes—bloodshot in a head most devilishly racked by Old Tom—we shall not speak.
Margaret stretched her hand for more bread. Despite the moving scenes in which during the night she had travelled with her Bill, her appetite was nothing affected. With her meals her sentimentality was upon the friendliest terms. This girl was most gnawed by hunger when by emotion she was most torn.
She stretched for a third slice.
Mr. Marrapit cleared his throat. The sound shot her. She caught his eye and the glance pierced her. Her outstretched hand dropped upon the cloth, toyed with crumbs.
Mr. Marrapit said: “I perceive you are finished?”
Margaret murmured: “Yes.” Her voice had a tremulous note. It is a bitter thing to lose a slice of bread-and-butter for which the whole system imperatively calls.
“Withdraw,” Mr. Marrapit commanded.
She put a lingering glance upon the loaf; wanly glided from the room.