Where the girl now laid her small hand five infant Chaters had been nourished; the massive bosom was advertisement that they had done well. Beneath the mingled gusts of hysteria and of wrath it violently contracted and dilated; but the heart, terrificly though Mrs. Chater said it throbbed, lay too deep to be discerned.
The agitated woman panted, “Can it go on like that?”
“I'm afraid I hardly—” Miss Humfray shifted her hand.
“Stupid! Take off your glove!”
The white kid clung to the warm flesh. Nervous and clumsy the girl struggled with it.
“Miss Humfray! How slow you are! Pull it!”
Mrs. Chater grabbed the turned-back wrist. A crack answered the jerk, and the glove split away in her hand. “There! Not my fault. Next time, perhaps, you will buy gloves sufficiently large. Oh, my poor heart! Now, feel. Press!”
The girl bit her lip. Humiliation lumped in her throat. She pressed, as bid, into that heaving blouse; said she could feel it. It was not very violent, she thought. Perhaps if Mrs. Chater lay back and closed her eyes—
“I was not able to jump out, you see,” said Mrs. Chater, sinking.
“Oh, you don't think I jumped out—and left you? I wouldn't. Besides, it is the most dangerous thing to do. That would have prevented me in any case. I was thrown. I thought I was going to be killed.”