Anne did not answer and moved to the door. Roger stepped quickly in front of her.
"How many times have you been?"
Anne's face flamed with the ugly, brick-red flush. Her body tightened and she looked scornfully at Roger.
"I shall be late as it is," she said stiffly. "Please let me pass."
"I won't." Roger knew that his anger was carrying him to rudeness, but Anne's manner rasped him beyond control. Behind Anne, he saw the subtle, low-voiced influence of Charlotte Welles. A Christian Science wife, believing in the muddled effusions of a sick old woman; for all he knew practicing her ridiculous faith upon him. Lost in a stupid philosophy that denied disease and poverty, Anne dared to look in scorn at Black Tom, at Katya, at Singh, at himself. With a quick movement, Anne passed him and laid her hand on the door-knob.
"You sha'n't go," he cried, white with anger.
"I shall go where I please," Anne answered quietly, "I don't interfere with you. You can go to your meeting, listen to your own particular brand of 'drivel,' pump up the enthusiasm of a few dozen people who don't know what else to do with themselves on a Sunday afternoon. At least, the few million Scientists, more or less, in the world, haven't had their belief manufactured and forced down their throats."
Roger's anger died. He reached for Rogie, and before Anne knew what had happened, holding the baby firmly, Roger stood aside.
"You're right. You don't interfere with me. But Rogie doesn't go."
It was Anne now who flamed to anger. Standing upon her tiptoes she snatched for the baby, who, thinking it was a new kind of game, wound his hands in his father's thick hair and kicked with joy.