Laura did not smile.
They held the bread together, while Mr. Priestley cut it. The meal began in silence.
It continued mostly in silence too. Any necessary remarks were exchanged curtly. Only once did either of them give way for a moment, and that was when Laura’s intention to drink her cocoa coincided with Mr. Priestley’s desire for more butter. The result was that Laura’s cocoa plunged hastily into her lap, where it mingled with the water that had already found its billet there. She drank Mr. Priestley’s cocoa instead, on that gentleman’s firm insistence, but it did not really appease her.
When they had finished they steamed gloomily in front of the fire for a space. Their garments hung clammily upon them.
There is nothing like clamminess to bring out the worst in a man or woman. Mr. Priestley felt clamminess invading his very soul, and the more clammy his outer person became the more sore he felt inside. Here had he, a respectable citizen, been inveigled by this abandoned and now thoroughly distasteful young woman (had he really at one time for a fleeting moment thought her charming? Had he really?) into an attempt at barefaced robbery, he had killed a man for her sake, he had locked a policeman in a cupboard, he had rescued her from an extremely awkward set of circumstances so that she was indebted to him not only for her liberty, but possibly for her life as well—he had done all this, and what was his reward? To have his hot cocoa drunk for him, and be snapped at for offering it! Life looked a gloomy proposition to Mr. Priestley.
“I suppose you’ve tried to wriggle your hand out?” he asked, when the silence had threatened to become too embarrassing.
“Am I a complete fool?” asked the lady shortly.
The question had certainly not been a very brilliant one, but then neither was the answer tactful. Mr. Priestley’s reply was still less so. He did not say “Yes!” because that would have been rude; he just said, quite politely, “That remains to be seen.”
Laura snorted.
The snort seemed to nerve Mr. Priestley. He started slightly, looked at his companion, and then strode towards the door. Laura followed him. Mr. Priestley, radiating stern decision like the men wearing electric belts in the advertisements, flung open the door and called up the stairs.