III
Gerald returned to the bedroom which contained his wife and all else that he owned in the world at about nine o’clock that evening. Sophia was in bed. She had been driven to bed by weariness. She would have preferred to sit up to receive her husband, even if it had meant sitting up all night, but her body was too heavy for her spirit. She lay in the dark. She had eaten nothing. Gerald came straight into the room. He struck a match, which burned blue, with a stench, for several seconds, and then gave a clear, yellow flame. He lit a candle; and saw his wife.
“Oh!” he said; “you’re there, are you?”
She offered no reply.
“Won’t speak, eh?” he said. “Agreeable sort of wife! Well, have you made up your mind to do what I told you? I’ve come back especially to know.”
She still did not speak.
He sat down, with his hat on, and stuck out his feet, wagging them to and fro on the heels.
“I’m quite without money,” he went on. “And I’m sure your people will be glad to lend us a bit till I get some. Especially as it’s a question of you starving as well as me. If I had enough to pay your fares to Bursley I’d pack you off. But I haven’t.”
She could only hear his exasperating voice. The end of the bed was between her eyes and his.
“Liar!” she said, with uncompromising distinctness. The word reached him barbed with all the poison of her contempt and disgust.