§8
If Lady Harman had failed to remark at the time the deep impression her words had made upon her hearers, she would have learnt it later from the extraordinary wrath in which Sir Isaac, as soon as his guests had departed, visited her. He was so angry he broke the seal of silence he had set upon his lips. He came raging into the pink bedroom through the paper-covered door as if they were back upon their old intimate footing. He brought a flavour of cigars and manly refreshment with him, his shirt front was a little splashed and crumpled and his white face was variegated with flushed patches.
“What ever d’you mean,” he cried, “by making a fool of me in front of those fellers?... What’s my business got to do with you?”
Lady Harman was too unready for a reply.
“I ask you what’s my business got to do with you? It’s my affair, my side. You got no more right to go shoving your spoke into that than—anything. See? What do you know of the rights and wrongs of business? How can you tell what’s right and what isn’t right? And the things you came out with—the things you came out with! Why Charterson—after you’d gone Charterson said, she doesn’t know, she can’t know what she’s talking about! A decent woman! a lady! talking of driving girls on the street. You ought to be ashamed of yourself! You aren’t fit to show your face.... It’s these damned papers and pamphlets, all this blear-eyed stuff, these decadent novels and things putting narsty thoughts, narsty dirty thoughts into decent women’s heads. It ought to be rammed back down their throats, it ought to be put a stop to!”
Sir Isaac suddenly gave way to woe. “What have I done?” he cried, “what have I done? Here’s everything going so well! We might be the happiest of couples! We’re rich, we got everything we want.... And then you go harbouring these ideas, fooling about with rotten people, taking up with Socialism——Yes, I tell you—Socialism!”
His moment of pathos ended. “NO?” he shouted in an enormous voice.
He became white and grim. He emphasized his next words with a shaken finger.
“It’s got to end, my lady. It’s going to end sooner than you expect. That’s all!...”
He paused at the papered door. He had a popular craving for a vivid curtain and this he felt was just a little too mild.
“It’s going to end,” he repeated and then with great violence, with almost alcoholic violence, with the round eyes and shouting voice and shaken fist and blaspheming violence of a sordid, thrifty peasant enraged, “it’s going to end a Damned Sight sooner than you expect.”
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH
Sir Isaac as Petruchio