"Arthur—if you go away from me, as you speak of doing, I think, quite quietly, I shall kill myself!"
Good heavens! The woman, whoever she was, said it as it she meant it. It was no joking voice, its owner was deeply moved. She was evidently French, though her English was nearly faultless, the accent a mere flavour. Esther recalled that a man and woman had taken the table on her right and a little behind her. She longed to look at them, but controlled her impulse, out of curiosity to hear more. There was a silence that seemed interminable. Then the woman spoke again, her voice vibrant, urgent:
"You heard me! Why don't you answer? Why? Ah! My God, it is like beating against a stone wall!"
At last a man's voice, low, cold and a little sulky.
"What do you want me to say, Thérèse? You know as well as I do I've got to live."
"Ah, but is that the reason—the only reason for your going?"
"Good God, what else would it be? You don't imagine I'd choose to bury myself in a rotten hole like that, do you?"
There was a long sigh, quavering with tears.
"I know how fearfully difficult it all is, only, Arthur, why must you decide at once? Why not wait a bit?"
"If I wait, I lose the job. That's why. I thought you understood.
Besides, what is there to hang about here for?"