It is doubtful if much had depended on it, whether Mrs. North could have helped some expression of her objection to orange-sucking when indulged in by her husband. She came to an abrupt halt in the doorway and looked much as if there was a bad smell under her nose.
There was an unpleasant pause. North, inwardly fumed, continued to suck his orange. He had, it is to be feared, the most complete contempt for his wife’s opinion on all subjects, and it irritated him to feel that she had nevertheless, at times, a power which, it must be confessed, she had used unmercifully in the early days of their married life, to make him feel uncomfortable.
Finally he flung the orange at the wastepaper basket, missed his aim, and it landed, the gaping hole uppermost, in the centre of the hearth.
“If you want to speak to me,” he said irritably, “you had better come and sit down. On the other hand, if you do not like my sucking an orange, you might have gone away till I had finished.”
“I didn’t say anything,” said Mrs. North.
She skirted the offending orange skin carefully and arranged the fluffy curls at the back of her neck in front of the glass. Then she sat down and arranged the lace in front of her frock.
“I can’t think why you are always so disagreeable now,” she complained at length. “You used to be so fond of me once.”
By this time the atmosphere was electric with irritation. A more inopportune moment for such an appeal could hardly have been chosen.
“I don’t suppose you have dressed early to come down and tell me that,” said North. It was not nice of him, and he knew it was not nice, but for the life of him he could not help it. Indeed it was only by a superhuman effort that his answer had not verged on the brutal.
“I came to talk to you about Violet, but it’s so impossible to talk to you about anything.”